Shatterpoint
by TheRandomScribbler
Summary: Legolas is captured and tortured by a man he believes is Aragorn. Little does he realize this is only the hatching of a wicked plot devised by a man who would do anything to see not the Prince of Mirkwood but the Heir of Isildur utterly destroyed.Epilogue
1. Betrayed!

**Summary: Legolas is captured by a man who looks extremely like Aragorn. This man tortures the Elf and makes him believe it is Aragorn who is hurting him. Can the broken friendship be repaired with time? Will Legolas ever be able to trust Aragorn again? Can he ever see who it was that really hurt him? **

**Rating: T. Good solid T.**

**Disclaimer: Tolkien's, NLC's, NOT MINE, unless some strange proof appears that evidences my direct relation to JRRT…and it shouldn't, 'cause I'm half Chinese.**

**As usual, flamers will be hog-tied and muled straight to the garbage chute. Go find someone else to bother, will you?  
**

**-----Shatterpoint----  
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Legolas Greenleaf was alone, walking silently through Mirkwood towards his home. He had been out hunting alone that day, searching for a great spider that had been plaguing a village to the east. He had shot and killed it easily, unaided. It had been no strenuous task.

He did not wish for assistance, as none had been needed. He was not so foolish as to take on tasks alone if more was required than solo effort. Had he needed help he would have recruited soldiers from the palace to assist him. He desired nothing in the way of company.

Yet he was lonely.

There was only one whose company he really missed.

Aragorn.

The Ranger from the North whose friendship he had long held dear had been gone from his presence for…well, far too long. It had been years since he had seen the Man, and he would quickly admit that he did miss his best and only friend, the only human he fully trusted.

His pace quickened and a smile graced his face as the thought descended upon him, _Aragorn is coming today! He may even be there at the palace, waiting for me, as I walk!_

It was true. Aragorn, after too many years, was finally making his way back to Mirkwood to see his old friend. The Man should be nearly at the palace by this point, actually, and Legolas began a steady jog in order to speed up his own arrival home.

A thought occurred to him, and he made a sudden left turn before swinging into the trees. He had not been traveling the normal road through Mirkwood, as he found it boring, but had been taking no certain path, merely using his own good senses to bring himself in the direction of home. Now he decided to travel through the trees and travel the remainder of the distance to the palace watching the main road, so as to see whether Aragorn was coming this way and perhaps plan a fake 'ambush' if he was.

However, he had traveled the distance quickly and found that Aragorn was not yet there, nor was he on the ground that Legolas had covered thus far.

Disappointed, the elf decided to backtrack and take a different way; perhaps Aragorn was trying to sneak up on him or had found the regular route boring as well. He began to mentally plan an 'attack', hoping to scare Aragorn out of his wits before beginning the well-earned reunion. His father would disapprove of what he would probably describe as 'childish behavior', but Legolas didn't care. He left Thranduil a note telling him where he'd gone, so his father wouldn't worry or wonder. This would be fun, and he would see Aragorn, and that was all that mattered.

Ten minutes later he was far away from the palace, and still he had not found his friend. He was beginning to wonder why. Aragorn knew which ways were good and which were dangerous, and he also would be eager to see Legolas, so he wouldn't waste time on heroics or some other equally time-consuming factor. Besides, Legolas should be able to track him, or find some sign of him, and so far he had seen nothing.

"Where are you, Aragorn, my friend?" he wondered aloud, and was startled when a voice behind him answered.

"Right here, mellon nin," came the voice of a Ranger. Legolas spun around, shocked that he hadn't managed to hear the human, to find a cloaked figure staring at him, a shadowy grin on its face. He seemed older than Legolas had last remembered him, although perhaps it was only because it had been so long that it seemed this way.

"Surprised?"

Legolas quickly regained his composure. "Aragorn! I—you—you startled me, that is all." There was a strange feel about the Ranger, something cold and bitter, but Legolas ignored it, telling himself that it was merely because he had not seen Aragorn in so long that it felt odd.

He moved forward to embrace his friend, smiling widely, so happy that finally—_finally—_he was with Aragorn again.

Aragorn met him and opened his arms wide to him, inviting a hug, and Legolas embraced him warmly.

"I've missed you," murmured Aragorn, stroking Legolas's hair.

"And I you," Legolas replied. "It has been too long, far too long."

"Aye," agreed Aragorn. "We must make a habit of this…I do not believe our years apart have done us any good."

"Agreed!" Legolas exclaimed sincerely. "Truly, we should visit more often."

He sighed, content merely to enjoy the other's presence for the time, when suddenly, Aragorn's hand tightened around Legolas's long hair. Legolas frowned slightly.

The elf pulled his head gently to show Aragorn he was hurting him, thinking that the Ranger had not meant to do it, but Aragorn's grasp only got tighter.

"Aragorn?" Legolas asked, confused, his elation beginning to give way to bewilderment. "Could you…?" He tried to pull away again, but Aragorn would not let him.

Nothing, not a hundred-thousand years, nor a large sign with bright lettering, nor the loudest-screamed warning message could have prepared him for what happened next.

The hand tangled in his hair yanked at it hard, jerking his head back so his throat was exposed. A knife appeared in Aragorn's hand, and he pressed it to the elf's throat even as he shoved him onto the ground and held him there

"Don't struggle, Legolas," he said lazily. "It'll only make things worse for you. You know I'm stronger than you."

"A-Aragorn?" Legolas asked, his eyes wide, staring in horror at the one he called his best friend, the one whose warm embrace he had just been enjoying mere seconds before. "What—what are you—why—"

Aragorn grinned at the shocked expression on the prince's face. "You didn't really expect our friendship to last, did you, Legolas, mellon nin? I thought you would have learned after the last time you made friends with a human…"

"No," Legolas said in shock, faintly. "You aren't—not Aragorn—I do not believe it is him—"

"But I am Aragorn," sneered his captor. "You trusted me, foolish creature, you thought me your friend…"

"But you are my friend," Legolas said desperately. "This is all a joke, some awful joke…"

Aragorn laughed unpleasantly. "It is no joke. I assure you what I have intended for you will be…well…let me just say that you shall wish yourself dead by the middle of it."

"But," said Legolas, his voice barely a whisper. "What about all the times you saved my life? What about the times I saved your life? We—we've fought together, we could've died together, we've been tortured, we've escaped together…were every one of those experiences a façade?"

The feeling of elation, of uncomparable happiness, of absolute joy he had had moments before was gone, replaced by a knot of horror, disbelief and dread. The human had been his best friend, there was no other except perhaps his own father that he would have trusted more. Never in his wildest nightmares would Legolas have dreamed this possible.

Aragorn shrugged carelessly. "Not a façade, no. I was your friend. I held loyalty to you. But things have changed, it's more profitable to me for this to happen than for our friendship to continue."

"No." Legolas would have shaken his head fiercely, if he didn't have a knife at his throat. "I don't believe you. I won't. You pledged me your friendship and loyalty, and swore upon your honor you would not break this vow ere you walked upon this earth. You would not break your oath. I am going to wake up, and this will all be a horrible dream. A dream. Nothing more."

"But it is no dream." Aragorn leaned close to Legolas, so close the elf could feel his hot breath on his neck. The Ranger pressed his knife harder onto the prince's neck. "Does this feel like a dream, mellon nin?" he asked tauntingly.

Tears pricked at Legolas's eyes, but not from the pain of the dagger. The Ranger with whom he had entrusted his life so many times was gone. In his place was a cruel monster, willing to sacrifice his own friend for his own gain. There was no nobility in that familiar face now. No pride of goodness, nor pleasure at good deeds. Only malice, sadistic delight and arrogance remained now.

Legolas knew it was his fault, of course. He had trusted the man, this so-called 'Estel', when he knew how faulty the morals of Men were. Aragorn was right: he should have learned after the last time he had had a mortal friend. He should have known that Men would always betray him. Now it was too late, and the single mortal with whom Legolas had bared his soul, had believed his forever-loyal friend, and who had saved his life on more than one occasion had turned against him.

"Do not weep, Legolas," said Aragorn with a mocking sense of soothing. "Save your tears for when you really need them. Save them for the true pain that is to come. Save them for when you have naught left but tears to give." He laughed again, and Legolas felt an overwhelming sense of despair racing through his entire body, stealing his breath and forcing him to shut his eyes to block out the pain of seeing his ex-friend's smirking face.

Aragorn produced a length of rope from his belt and used it tightly bind together Legolas's hands. The elf did not even have it in him to struggle. His spirit was dead, any trust he had in the race of Men was utterly demolished, and as he was hoisted roughly onto a horse after being blindfolded his last thought, as Aragorn pressed a sleeping-drug soaked rag to his mouth, was, _Never shall I trust a Man again. If ever I chance to come upon one in the future, I shall slay him without delay or argument, so he can cause no more harm to my innocent race…_

&- - - - - &- - - - - &

King Thranduil, son of Orophin and current King of Mirkwood, glared angrily at a large stone statue of a goat standing on its hind legs located outside of his son's rooms. It stared stubbornly back. He didn't even know why Legolas kept the ridiculous thing, although then again Legolas did a lot of things unfathomable to his father—such as hiding a baby spider under his bed, naming it 'Bain' (Sindarin for 'beautiful') and giving it Thranduil's best wine to drink. Drunk spiders were not a pleasant thing to behold, especially if they were living in your house.

It would have been one thing if Legolas had been an elfling when this had occurred, but sadly, it had only been three months prior to this very day that his strange son had—for whatever reason—fallen in love with the baby whose mother had been killed and taken it home without notifying his father. Then, of course, he'd given it the wine, and left again, forgetting to lock his door in the meantime. Naturally, the creature had escaped. Legolas had been crestfallen when he discovered it was gone, but Thranduil privately thought it was for the better anyway. That should teach his son not to disappear at random intervals for no reason, Thranduil thought.

Which brought him to why he was standing by Legolas's rooms to begin with. He wanted to find his son to ask him how the mission with the savage spider—_not _Bain, thankfully—had gone, and see if Legolas was successful.

"Legolas?" Thranduil pounded on the heavy oak door. "It's your father, Legolas. I want to talk with you…"

Heavy silence was all he got.

"Legolas?" Thranduil hoped the boy wasn't back there trying desperately to hide some strange speciman he'd taken pity on by hiding it in the wardrobe or something.

"Galenlas, you had better not be trying to hide something from me…"

Nothing.

"Legolas, open up!"

Still silence.

Fed up, Thranduil turned the handle and pushed the door open, cautiously at first to make sure there was nothing creeping and crawling around the floor, or something that might jump out and attack him.

There was nothing.

The room was empty.

Thranduil sighed. Then he spotted something lying on the desk near the window—the open window. It was a piece of paper, a note that read,

_Father—_

_Gone to find Aragorn. Slow edain taking too long. Planning fake ambush along second main road. Back later. Oh, and mission successful. _

_Love, Legolas_

Sighing irritably, Thranduil crumpled up the note and thrust it into his pocket. So that was where his impatient son had gone. To find the human who was supposed to be paying them a visit. Perfect. That would mean that once he came back with Aragorn, he would be far too distracted catching up with his friend to discuss the mission with his father.

"My lord?" A servant had appeared in the doorway.

"Yes?" Thranduil said, trying not to glare at the elf in his annoyance with Legolas.

"My lord, you have a visitor…a human, who calls himself Strider."

_And there he is now. Wonderful._ "I suppose my son" –he refrained from saying 'my maddening, happy-go-lucky, currently in-for-it son'— "is with him?"

The servant looked slightly confused. "No, Your Highness, 'tis only the edain. He has been requesting Prince Legolas for the last few minutes, and I actually came up here to find him but…"

Thranduil cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?" _Well, then, where is Legolas? If he lied about finding Aragorn…_ "I will be down straightaway," he said, and the servant bowed and left.

Rolling his eyes the second the servant was out of sight, Thranduil set off, muttering the entire way about exasperating sons and their friends.

Aragorn was waiting in the throne room, an eager look upon his face. When he saw Thranduil, he looked slightly past the king, apparently looking for Legolas, and when his eyes found not the prince the eager look on his face faded, although he tried to hide it with a mask of politeness. Thranduil wasn't fooled, though; Aragorn wanted to see Legolas and was disappointed that he wasn't there.

"King Thranduil." Aragorn inclined his head and brought his hand to his chest in the way that was appropriate.

"Aragorn," Thranduil stated gravely. "It has been too long."

A moment of awkward silence pervaded before Aragorn, apparently unable to keep quiet, burst out, "My lord, if you hold no objections, I would seek out the company of Prince Legolas immediately. I—I feel as though I can no longer wait to see him, for I have dearly missed him these many past years."

"I have no objections," the king said, dryly amused by Aragorn's sudden passion. "Only one question—" He said as Aragorn made to exit the throne room.

"Yes, Your Highness?" Aragorn stopped, and Thranduil was reasonably certain that the human was doing all within his power to prevent himself from hopping from one foot to the other in his anxiety.

"Which way did you enter Mirkwood?" Thranduil asked.

"The second main road, my lord," Aragorn said, seeming puzzled by the question. "Why, if I may ask…?"

"The second?" Thranduil's brow creased in worry. "Legolas left me a note—here—" he pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it to the human. "He said he was going to wait for you by the second main entrance—did you not come across him, Aragorn, if this is indeed the path you took?"

"No, my lord." Aragorn's silver eyes clouded with concern as he read the note. "I swear, I have not so much as seen your son for years…I have no idea…"

"Then what could have happened?" Thranduil demanded, anger rising his chest. Either Legolas had been lying about the note, which he had no reason to do, or Legolas was in trouble and needed help. He met the eyes of Aragorn, who nodded in understanding.

There was only one thing to do: seek out the Elven prince immediately, and aid him if the situation required it.

Little did they know that at that very moment, Legolas was a hundred miles away and being tormented at the hands of the man he believed had been his best friend.

**REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW! Um…please? It'll help me get the next one up more quickly (hint, hint)… if there is enough interest I will continue, k?**


	2. Lost Prisoner

**Readers: ATTENTION!! I have REVAMPED this chapter and REWORKED the plot. Even if you have already read this chapter it is IMPERATIVE you read it again! The plot has CHANGED! Quite honestly I found the original plot slightly implausible and I thought this would be more enjoyable and believable! Please FORGIVE me, but I think you'll like it just as much or better! **

**Please note: I KNOW this chapter is impossibly short, but the material just worked better in another chapter. Chapter Three, also reworked, is DONE, and is already posted. Thank you all!**

**TRS**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of this stuff. Pity, really.**

Taros Acosta was not a good man.

In fact, he was downright evil.

He had murdered, stolen, masterminded horrible crimes, kidnapped…

And he was proud of it.

He had legions of minions at his call.

Hundreds of servants just waiting to be summoned.

Thousands of slaves to serve him hand and foot.

All were plunder from his exploits.

He had raided and destroyed too many villages to count, and taken all their wealth and villagers to be his.

All of his raids he had planned very carefully. Each time, he would slip into a town, make acquaintances with the villagers, and position his men around the village. He would lure the people into lowering their guard, and then, when the time was right, he would lash out at the unsuspecting citizens. Those he did not kill he took for slaves. Every time he left no trace that a village had even existed there. Many were too small to be noticed missing for a very long while, and when it was noticed, it was assumed the residents had packed up and moved to a different location, burning the old town to make way for others. It was a perfect plan; nobody ever found out the villagers were now slaves and their possessions in the hands of a greedy overseer. And, as small as the villages were, once one had taken enough of them they added up to quite a large amount.

He had built up quite a reputation by this point. He was a very wanted man. Yet he was good, very good, and no one had even come close to snaring him and discovering where he kept his treasure. Certainly many had tried to find him—but they had ended up dead, and now everyone was afraid to even try. Other villages existed in fear, terrified that their little town might be next. Frightened that Taros might come for them. Taros loved keeping them in that fear. Sometimes, he would slip, disguised, into a bar or tavern, just to hear them talk about him. To speak of him as The Destroyer, to speak his title with fear. Of course, there was little need for him to disguise himself; no one had actually seen his face. But better safe than sorry, and he had always been able to slip in and out with no difficulty whatsoever.

He was happy, living his life as the magistrate of fear, more slaves, gold, gems, women, cattle than he could ever count or use. He could do whatever he wanted, he had the money, the power. It was the perfect life.

And then the Rangers had come and ruined it all.

Taros balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth at the memory.

Those stupid Rangers. How he hated them…especially their leader, who bore an eerie resemblance to himself. He had been at his peak, at his prime, at the very top, enjoying life and the full benefits of his thievery, when he was taken by surprise, ambushed, by the men of the wild and taken into custody.

The leader and his men had come and taken everything he had worked for, everything he had ever had. They had taken his fortune, his people, his homes, his _life_. All had been turned over to the local government, and Taros, leader, and found responsible for the impossibly huge damage and number of casualties over the last few years, was imprisoned. For life. Having been found guilty of all the pillaging, plundering and ruthless slaughter of innocents which had been going on for at least half a decade, the councillors, along the Rangers' leader, decided he was too dangerous to be ever given freedom again. It was the fault of the Ranger leader. He had influenced their decision the most. The councillors, being, in Taros's opinion, fair, were wanting to only give him ten to fifteen years. They were about to pronounce judgment when the silent Ranger had stepped in, eyes narrowed, and, in a low voice, and made some eloquent speech about evil not escaping. It was all completely unfair. The Ranger had twisted Taros's deeds, making them seem far worse than they were. He lied to them, told them untruths. And then, after all that, he suggested life imprisonment. Taros had never felt such a fury well up within him as the whole courtroom swelled up with agreement, screaming their support for the filthy, lying Ranger.

And as the Ranger passed him, headed out of the courtroom, eyes sparkling, in Taros's opinion, with vindictive glee, Taros stared him hard in the face, a hatred he'd never felt before bubbling up inside him. As he was being taken away in shackles, he had spat in the Ranger's face and hissed, "Forget not my anger, fool; you will feel the lash of my fury before this life is over."

The man said nothing, just stared with his unreadable, infuriatingly calm gray gaze, which only fueled Taros's rage. His wrath and malice overflowing, he lunged away from his guards, straight for the Ranger's throat with a wild scream.

There was a flash of metal, quicker than any human eye could see, and Taros screamed again—for there on the floor lay three of his fingers, the result of his by-fury-blind attack. The Ranger was standing absolutely still as Taros lay crumpled on the floor, clutching his remaining digits and howling.

"I'm sorry," was all he said, and then he was gone.

Then Taros had been confined to a tiny, dingy cell. The guards mocked him, hating him, for many of them were villagers who had fled their hometowns due to one of Taros's attacks. Taros Two-Finger, they called him, and laughed.

"Your crimes have finally caught up with you, haven't they?" they would taunt. "Where are you now, 'Highness'? What have your deeds gained you, 'my lord'?" And then they would laugh, jeering, sometimes spitting at his feet or tossing his food on the grimy floor.

And it was all the Ranger's fault. Every day Taros Two-Finger lived in absolute hatred of the man and every day he swore anew to destroy him and all he held dear. His lust for revenge grew each day, his absolute loathing for the man almost matching his will to live.

He soon began devising a plan of escape. These foolish guards could not hold him for long. For two years he put up with their abuse, suffered from the humiliation and lived with the pain where his fingers had been, for a long time did they take to heal. All the while he plotted and planned, made his drawings on the walls, yet to anyone else they would have looked naught but the scribblings of a man gone mad. He fashioned the tiniest of knives from a leg bone of an animal they had fed him—it had been a holiday, and the drunk soldiers were feeling festive enough to grace him with some real food. It was both sharp enough to kill and small enough to pick the locks on his chains. So one day, during a celebration of the town mayor's birthday, he readied himself. He knew that his guards would be too drunk off their rear ends to make much sense out of anything, and this was his opportunity. He unlocked his chains and waited for his food to arrive. As he had expected, the guard was dead drunk. Noiselessly Taros stole up from his useless chains, pausing to sneer into the man's shocked face as reality slowly dawned, and slit his throat in one fluid motion. Easing the dead man onto the floor, he stole his sword and dagger, and slid noiselessly into the hallway, killing any guards unfortuante enough to be in his path.

He had escaped the compound. Now it was time for revenge. Oh, sweet revenge. He hooped the Ranger was still alive and in good health. Taros wanted to be the one who completely and utterly destroyed him.

"You will pay, Strider," he hissed venomously into the cool air, before silently disappearing into the night.

------------------------------------------------

"My lord!"

King Thranduil turned at the sound of Aragorn's voice. "Yes? What is it? Have you found anything?" he asked, eagerly searching the Ranger's face for anything that might show he'd found some trace of Legolas.

"Horse tracks," Aragorn said, pointing. "They lead north. They are fresh, though they are not made by Elven horses. These tracks are much heavier than those of Elves' horses."

Thranduil's face betrayed his excitement. "Do you think—perhaps his abductor--?"

"Was human?" Aragorn shook his head. "I know not, my lord. It may be so, or perhaps it was an Elf using a human's horse to disguise himself. I cannot know for sure. It may be that it is only a human passing through Mirkwood and this has nothing to do with our search. I think not, though, for I also found this."

He held up to the light, so Thranduil could more easily see it, a single strand of gold-blond hair. "I found this next to some of the tracks." He pulled something else from a pocket. "As well as this."

The second item was an iron arrowhead, used only by royalty of Mirkwood. Besides Thranduil, there was only one other who could have misplaced this item.

Thranduil snatched both from Aragorn. "Aye," he breathed. "This hair is my son's, and this arrowhead…Legolas sometimes keeps spare heads with him in the rare event that one of his arrows snaps." He looked at Aragorn. "Perhaps he left this as a clue? A desperate attempt to let us know what happened?"

"I know not," said Aragorn grimly. "But it confirms our suspicions, I think, that Legolas is indeed in unfriendly hands."

Thranduil nodded as he pocketed their clues. He swallowed, trying hard not to think of where his beloved son might be just now. He straightened and looked his companion directly in the eye. "This is your only chance to turn back, Aragorn. I fear a perilous path lies ahead of us. It will not be easy, and if you choose to follow me now there is no turning back until our objective is obtained." He indicated slightly to the two silent elven warriors he had brought with them. "These will follow me until my death or theirs, but you have the chance to leave now if you wish. I shall not hold it against you in any way if you should choose it...?"

Aragorn's reply was to swing up onto his mount, a look of fierce determination on his face. The move was quickly matched by Thranduil, who mentally sighed with relief that the human had chosen to follow.

Aragorn looked to the King for direction. Thranduil stared coldly ahead into whatever doom awaited them, steeling himself for whatever trials might await them. He would find Legolas, no matter what it took. Without even glancing at the Ranger he could feel Aragorn's resolve to accomplish the same. He was startled to feel a rush of warmth and gratefulness towards the Ranger, gratefulness that his son had such a loyal, unwavering friend, and warmth that he had such a man to fight beside him. But as for now they had to concentrate on the task at hand.

"We ride North," he said grimly.

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**Feedback? I'd love to hear it! **


	3. Aragorn

**Readers: THANK YOU for being here today! As I told you, this chapter is finished! And, as a reward for being so kind and patient, CHAPTER FOUR WILL BE POSTED NO LATER THAN TWO WEEKS FROM TODAY! Thank you, my kind and patient readers!**

**Please note, to my old readers, that there is not much changed from the original to this version. Except for the first part of this chappie. Just fyi.**

**ALSO NOTE: IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER, READ IT. NOW. Even if you are reading this email because this story was on your alerts, and you've already read chapter 2, READ IT AGAIN. IT IS VERY, VERY DIFFERENT. If you don't read it, you'll be lost. So...yeah. _Please_.**

**TRS**

**Chapter 3**

Night had fallen on the lair in which Taros Acosta sought to carry out his wicked plans. He lenade back in his chair and steepled his fingers, temporarily lost in thought.

Oh, but planning revenge was sweet indeed. It was true what they said—that it was a dish best served cold. Cold Taros would be in releasing his venom upon the Valar-damned Ranger. Cold and merciless like a serpent about to seize on its prey. He would be ruthless as the mountain cat, silently stalking its victim, eyes alight with a hard, murderous glitter.

He would strike out at his hated enemy, at the Dunedán who had destroyed Taros's world without a second thought. For months he had seethed and raged and plotted—but nothing was good enough for him or bad enough for the Ranger. Death would have been too easy. Death was too good for the son-of-scum Ranger who had heartlessly and emotionlessly cast Taros into the dark without a flicker of thought.

Yes indeed, death was too good.

He had stewed over this fact for many a night, over many a pipe, often hurling the smoking instrument to the wall in his frustration to come up with something which would adequately punish the Dunedán. Taros had always rather had anger issues.

But finally, after many restless nights, he had come up with a perfect plan. Absolutely perfect. It was guaranteed to make the Ranger's life the absolute epitome of misery, make him weep wretchedly, force him to lower himself to the lowest point. He would make his life a living hell. He was going to make the Ranger feel his existance was completely futile.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

"To make one lose interest in life…merely remove from it that which makes one's life worth living," he whispered, voice strangled with malicious pleasure.

To his right there was a tiny moan. Taros glanced over at his captive and smirked. The fair being had no idea what had hit him. He was under the impression that his best friend had betrayed and kidnapped him. It was so perfect. After spying on the Prince and his friend Aragorn for months, he had finally determined the proper things to do and say in order to act like the Prince's best friend. He already had the looks—indeed, at first he could hardly believe his luck—and now his mannerisms were perfect. He knew exactly what Aragorn would say in situations. He knew enough of their heritage together to get away with that as well. He knew of Aragorn's brothers, surrogate father and Rivendell, the place he called home.

It was _so_ perfect. And torturing the elf would be so much fun, too.

To his right Legolas gave a small moan.

Taros glanced at him. "He should be waking up soon," he murmured to himself. The drug was supposed to last twelve hours, and it had been nearly that already.

Surely enough, a few minutes later there was movement from the bound figure. He tried to say something, but the gag on his mouth prevented this.

Taros smirked at him, even though he knew Legolas couldn't see him. He had bound the elf's wrists, ankles and thighs, a well as gagged and blindfolded him. Elves hated the dark, and Legolas just might panic if he found out he could not see.

"What did you say?" he asked as Legolas made another attempt at speech. "Tsk, tsk," he scolded, as the only products of the prince's attempt were muffled Elvish curses. "Didn't your father ever teach you to speak clearly, Legolas?"

Angry noise came from Legolas, and Taros watched with amusement Legolas's vain attempts to free himself of his bonds.

"I wouldn't bother," he said. "They'll only get tighter as you struggle…it is hithlain, as I'm sure you know, and you should be grateful it's only cutting off your circulation and not cutting into your skin as well."

Legolas tried to speak again and Taros, tiring of his game, got up to remove the gag. Never able to do things the simple, painless way, he slid a knife under the gag right next to the elf's ear. Legolas immediately tensed up, thinking Taros was going to slice his ear or something equally unpleasant, and he tried to squirm away.

"Hold still," snapped Taros. He grabbed Legolas's shoulder to hold him still. "I'm not going to hurt you just yet." He sliced through the gag and tossed it away to the side. He also cut the bonds on the elf's thighs and ankles, knowing there would be no way Legolas could escape. After a moment he slid the knife directly next to one eye, intending to cut the blindfold but hoping to cause the elf to think his eye was about to be gouged out. Much to his disappointment Legolas remained calm and unflinching while Taros slit the know binding the cloth to the prince's eyes.

Legolas blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the light of the torches in the room, before his gaze came to rest on Taros—or, as Legolas believed, on Aragorn. His shoulders slumped; apparently he had actually been hoping he had imagined it all.

"Aragorn," he said softly. "I still cannot believe it."

"What?" asked Taros sarcastically. "That I betrayed you, or that you were stupid enough to think I was your friend?"

Legolas blinked. "I…both, I suppose," he said quietly. He looked down at his bound hands, and then looked up again. "Would you mind explaining why…why you did this?" he asked, clearly struggling not to say _why you abducted me._

Taros smiled and idly examined his fingers. "I don't believe that information is for you to know, dear prince," he drawled.

Legolas didn't answer; he was staring at his hands again and his expression was one of sad disbelief. "I still don't believe you'll hurt me, Aragorn.…I don't think you can."

"Think again," sneered Taros. He knew how horribly he was hurting the elf, and he loved it. It caused Legolas so much pain to think his best friend was treating him like a prisoner… "You see it is me, Aragorn, don't you think if I can go so far as to betray and abduct you that I can hurt you just as easily?"

Again Legolas didn't reply. Suddenly he looked up, and his gaze was fierce. "How can I believe it is you?" he demanded. "How do I know you are Aragorn? Perhaps you are only a simpleton, a look-alike, pretending to be my best friend?"

Angered, Taros leaned forward and struck him. "A simpleton? Even if I were not Aragorn, and a stranger instead, no mere simpleton could have kidnapped a prince, Legolas. No so-called simpleton could have masterminded the plan I have for you and your kingdom. Truly, for all the long years you have known me, have I proved myself to be simple? I am no look-alike. I am Aragorn."

Legolas spat blood contemptously from his mouth. "Prove it," he said defiantly. "Prove to me that you are Aragorn son of Arathorn, my friend."

Taros ginned. He couldn't wait to see the elf's face when he pulled out his 'proof'. "You want proof? Very well, as you wish. Here is your proof." He flung out his hand, and watched with satisfaction as Legolas's eyes widened and any hope he had held previously drained from his features. The elf slumped back in defeat, his.

For there on the second finger of Taros's left hand, sat the Ring of Barahir.

"Where—where did you get that?" Legolas whispered, staring at it in shock.

"Are you really so dull?" said Taros, sneering. The Prince had to believe it was really Aragorn now. This was all going so well… "I am Aragorn, you stupid, dim-witted elf, this ring belongs to me and my line. It was given me when I became of age, as you well know."

He grabbed Legolas's chin and forced him to stare into his captor's dancing grey eyes. "Do you believe it now, Legolas?" he asked, grinning with evil pleasure.

"It seems I have no choice," the elf replied stiffly, though sadly. He averted his anguished gaze from his captor's.

"Good." Taros released Legolas, who immediately turned his back to Taros, swung his legs up onto the stone bench he was sitting on and hunched his back, resting his chin on his knees. He looked so defeated, which delighted Taros to no end.

"Normally I would punish you for that direct display of disrespect," drawled Taros from behind him. "But since I know you must be going through quite a shock…well, I'll let it go this time."

"You are _so_ kind," Legolas said bitterly, sarcasm lacing his every word. "I know not why I even bother to grace you with a reply," he muttered to himself.

"Well, in future, I will of course be deciding whether you reply or not, since I will be deciding when you may or may not speak," Taros mused with a smirk.He saw Legolas stiffen, and was disappointed when the Elf refrained from angry response, since it would have given him another opportunity to abuse him."Though then again in future, certain events may render you unwilling or possibly…_unable_ to reply."

He made a move towards the door. "I'm leaving you now," he said. "Although I daresay I will be back before too long. Make yourself at home…" he chuckled dryly at this, looking around the small, cold room—a cell it was more than anything. A tiny cot pushed up against one wall—which Legolas was currently sitting on—and a small jug of water on a roughly hewn wooden table were the only things adorning the room, except for the torches on the walls. There were no windows, not even on the door. Taros knew how elves hated dark, enclosed spaces.

"Rest up, dear prince," he sneered as the door shut and the heavy lock fell into place. "I fear you shall need it before tomorrow's sun has set."

_I will not believe it._

_I will not believe it._

_I will not believe it._

_I __**cannot**__ believe it. _

Legolas murmured feverishly in his sleep, tossing and turning as deep unrest clouded his mind, the tendrils of a nightmare creeping around him, grabbing him, choking him till he suffocated in their fury. "Aragorn, please, tell me it isn't true—!"

Even as he slept and dreamed he could not bring himself to believe the awful truth.

Aragorn could not have betrayed him.

He would never do that.

But the Ring of Barahir, more than sufficient proof…

What did this mean?

Maybe the human really was a traitor.

No! He couldn't be. Legolas trusted him. How many times had Aragorn saved his life? Legolas couldn't count. And just how often had Legolas in turn come to the human's aid at the very last minute, when his life was about to be destroyed and all hope had been lost? Legolas had lost track long ago.

"Aragorn, no!" The Elf screamed, thrashing wildly as his dreams overtook him again. He saw visions of himself and Aragorn, still his best friend in the dream. Aragorn was at first smiling, laughing with Legolas, then suddenly the Elf was pinned onto the grass and a long knife at his throat, Aragorn its master. Without further ado Legolas saw his own throat slit, saw his own lifeless, bloody corpse left on the ground for the spiders to devour. He watched Aragorn wipe his blade cleanly on the grass and walk away, not even looking back at the body, walking completely away from his own mess and not even caring he was leaving the body of a friend behind.

"No…no…_no_," Legolas whispered. He could sense another being in the room even in his blind, half-conscious state, and he was sure it was Aragorn. He could almost _see_ the human standing before him. He reached out to touch the familiar face, but all his fingers brushed as they stretched for where the elf believed the Ranger to be was…air. But Legolas still believed him to be there, and in the elf's tormented vision he was a terrible alternation between friend and foe; first a smiling, joyful young Estel, next a sadistic, sneering psychopath.

"_Legolas! Come see the view from up here!" called the Aragorn he knew, beckoning to the Elf to come ascend the hill above the waterfall near Rivendell. Legolas eagerly made his way to the top and observed the water crashing down upon the rocks with delight. The birds chirped merrily, and the sun shone off the rocks and water, making it glimmer like precious jewels. _

_"It's beautiful, isn't it, Aragorn? Aragorn?" The prince turned in confusion when he heard no reply, and discovered the human was no longer standing beside him._

_A great shove, and suddenly he was hanging off the edge of the precipice upon which he had just stood, kept from tumbling to his death only by the strong arms of the man now leering down at him, eyes glinting with a mad satisfaction, his best friend. _

_"A-Aragorn?" The Elf's eyes were wide with fear and uncertainty. _

_"You're weak, Legolas…" A soft hiss from the serpent's mouth, a horrible vicious sneer playing around the lips. "I should let go right now…save us all trouble."_

_"What?" Legolas whispered, unable to believe what he was hearing. He felt suddenly short of breath, like someone had plunged a jagged knife into his heart and was ripping it through his body slowly. _

_"Your father would be glad you died," Aragorn continued, his soft whispered words tearing the Elf to pieces. "He never wanted such a weak son. Lord Elrond would not miss you. Elladan and Elrohir would not, either. No one would mourn your death, Legolas…" _

_"Aragorn…you would not…?" Legolas did not finish the terrible unspoken question, his voice the slightest whisper._

_"Certainly I would not either," hissed the deceiver, his grip on the prince's arms slacking, letting Legolas slide further down. "Good-bye, Legolas…" _

_And he let go all the way._

_Legolas felt a cry tear itself from his throat as suddenly he was plunged downward into the sudden blackness. The last thing he saw was Aragorn's laughing, sneering face, waving mockingly at him as he fell to his death._

And then, suddenly, he hit cold water.

"Wake up, bloody elf!"

A rough hand seized the back of his tunic and finally woke Legolas from his nightmarish sleep, which had so seductively passed dream for reality.

Legolas sat up, breathing hard, looking around only to find a burly guard staring uncomfortably at him, an empty water pitcher in his hand, the contents of which, Legolas discovered, were now all over him. There was no cliff, no Aragorn, and he was nowhere near Imladris.

"Come on," commanded the guard. "Lord Aragorn wants you." He pulled some rope from his belt and indicated that he wanted Legolas to hold out his hands.

Disoriented and dazed as he was, there was no way he was going to submit to these people, that much was certain. He doubted he would be able to accomplish much in the means of escape, but at least he wouldn't go without a fight. He shook his head clearly at him to let him know he certainly wasn't going to comply.

"Fine, then," snapped the man, looking impatient and nervous at the same time. Legolas supposed the order to 'bring' him had probably been accompanied by a thinly-veiled threat from Aragorn to do so quickly or else. The human started forward and Legolas curled his legs beneath him, preparing to spring as soon as his target was within range.

He succeeded in knocking the human over, but he realized a little too late that this plan hadn't been very well-thought through as he tried the door and realized with dismay that it was still locked and he had nowhere to go. The human was faster than he looked, and was quickly back on his feet. In the time it took for Legolas to try the door and realize it wouldn't work the guard had regained his footing and was advancing towards the elf.

Legolas turned around quickly, hoping to still have a little space between himself and the other, only to have a large bulk immediately slam him against the door repeatedly. A large hand grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the wall, thoroughly dizzying him and making him unresisting for a few seconds.

That was all the time it took for the man to twist his arms painfully and firmly bind the elf's wrists together.

He left a little at the end to use as a lead, and yanked ungently on it to pull the elf from the room.

The fact that the human had beaten him so quickly disturbed the elf. He should have been able to put up a better fight than that. Normally he could have taken out the man in less than a minute; this time it was the other way around. He swallowed hard, realizing that he must be more disoriented from his situation than he though.

Legolas's lip curled as he was jerked forward rudely like an animal. He offered cold stares to the two other guards waiting for them outside of the room, and they in turn glared back, though Legolas was pleased to see that they looked quickly away.

"Keren, Mathos, watch him," grunted the original guard. "He might try something. I dunno…"

"Sure, Renith, sure," grinned the man to Legolas's right. "Can't have the Lord's pet get away now can we?" He leered at the bound elf and Legolas was sorely tempted to spit in his face, but he held his temper in light of the fact that he wasn't in a very good bargaining position right now.

Renith halted the company of four in front of a huge oak door a little ways down the hall. Keren and the other, Mathos, pushed the large door open and Renith shoved Legolas inside.

Legolas's heart began to race; he knew who was inside and he knew he could not afford to have any kind of breakdown. Masking his inner turmoil, he walked calmly into the room to receive whatever awaited him.

Aragorn stood by a window, his back turned to them, hands clasped behind him. Legolas's mouth tightened in bitterness at the familiarity of the scene; he had seen Aragorn in this position by the windows of both Rivendell and Mirkwood many times.

Legolas loudly and obnoxiously cleared his throat, drawing Aragorn's attention to him. The human turned and smiled widely when he saw who it was. He walked forward and came to sit in the large throne in the center of the room. He gestured lazily.

"Bring him forward," he commanded, indicating that they should bring Legolas in front of the throne.

They did so, taking no care to do it gently or considerately. When he was where Aragorn had commanded all three guards looked at him, as did Aragorn. It seemed that they were waiting for him to do something.

"Yes?" he demanded irritably. "Is there something I am unaware of?"

Aragorn reacted with an air of great surprise. "Oh, did you not know? Every time you are brought before me you are to _bow_, Legolas! After all, it is only be fitting that you show respect to your master. To me, that is."

Legolas's eyes blazed with fury. "Never," he spat. "You are not my master, nor have you given me any reason to pay homage to you. I will do no such thing." He stood even straighter and stared defiantly into the eyes of his captor, an act of clear disrespect and mocking.

"Fine, fine." Aragorn lazily waved a hand to his guards and immediately Legolas felt crushing pressure on his shoulders, forcing him down. Mathos kicked his knees out from behind and he crashed to the ground, unable to steady himself because of his bound wrists. A large hand pressed itself to his head, bowing it for the unwilling prisoner.

"Much better," said Aragorn approvingly. Legolas could not look up thanks to the hand forcing his head down, but fire was raging in his chest, something was roaring with fury within him. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his own anger.

He was aware that Aragorn had dismounted his throne and was now pacing around the elf in circles, eyeing him. Legolas's lip curled; he felt like something interesting being examined in the market. He had had that feeling before in the presence of men and he hated it. Edain! They were so arrogant. They thought Elves were their playthings, some exotic species that they could just enslave or torment at their will. They had no respect for the beautiful creatures, and looked upon them as lesser beings than themselves, when in fact Illúvatar had created the _Elves_ first, not the filthy _edain._ Legolas remembered only too well his own enormous mistreatment by the humans, and it wasn't an experience he was about to repeat willingly. He also remembered the only human who knew of his mistreatment, who had helped him, who had penetrated his inmost defenses…Aragorn. The human he'd trusted as the brother he'd never had…the _one_ human he thought he could trust. Who had stabbed him in the back, so to speak. He had made a mistake, he had thought that all humans weren't alike, but he silently committed himself to the final sentence that they were all the same, and none of them deserved mercy or respect, and certainly not trust.

Legolas stiffened as Aragorn neared him and forced himself not to meet Aragorn's eyes as two fingers hooked under his chin and brought it up in an attempt to force the elf to do exactly that. Legolas looked away determinedly; he refused to give the human the pleasure of seeing the pain, fear and anger within them.

"What am I going to do with you, Legolas?" The human asked softly to no one in particular. "My exquisite slave…my rare pet…"

Legolas jerked away involuntarily, those words striking something deep within him. He'd heard them before, and could not suppress the fear welling up within him at their use again. Aragorn laughed at him. Legolas flinched from the cruel sound. He had heard Aragorn laugh so many times before, but now it was a mocking, harsh noise making fun of him.

"My, my, a little nervous, are we?" Aragorn taunted. "A little…scared, Legolas? Scared…of a human…poor little Elf…"

Legolas swallowed the burning hatred rising in his throat and tried to let the words flow past him, to wash over him and not harm him, like water. But they clung to him and would not let go, and deep down inside activated the fear that he thought he'd gotten rid of a long time ago.

"What are you going to do?" he asked in a low tone, refusing to let his voice betray his tumultuous emotions. "If you are going to kill me, edain, do it." His voice was hardened and bitter.

"I can understand how you are having a difficult time accepting this, Legolas," Aragorn said, his tone soothing, ignoring the prince and seeming to sense to choked emotions behind the words. He put an arm around Legolas's shoulders, from which Legolas immediately recoiled, but even as he did so the arm tightened, clearly signifying that he should stay put, and Legolas was forced to do so. It was almost, _almost_ like before, when Aragorn would hold Legolas, and tell him it was going to be all right and just _be there _for his friend. Legolas shivered, remembering those times.

So similar yet unlike now.

A hand on his hair made this distant, far-off reminiscence even more painful and real.

Legolas jerked his head away. His breath came to him in sharp hisses as he tried to calm himself, tried to get a grip on his raging emotions. Only his friend Aragorn would he allow to touch him like that. Never this cruel monster Aragorn had become.

"Don't pretend to be my friend," Legolas whispered fiercely. "Why this new façade? One where you pretend to help me, then as you hold me you stab me in the back? It would be fitting. Poetic, almost. A friend murdering an unsuspecting, loyal friend for his own gain. But no more can I can expect out of a _Man._"

"Typical Elven outlook," said Aragorn regretfully. He stood for a moment looking contemplative, before giving some commands to the guards in a language Legolas had never before heard. The guards snickered quietly among themselves, elbowing one another in sickening knowing.

After a moment he swept over and drew a knife. Legolas flinched instinctively as the sharp metal left its sheath, making a _shhiiing!_ sound, but Aragorn merely sliced into his bonds and severed them with a single swift cut. Legolas looked at him uncertainly before rising to his feet, not knowing what to expect. A wave of apprehension swept over the elf. He looked to Aragorn for answers but the human ignored him and swept from the room, looking pleased with himself.

"Have your fun, but do not forget, you are not to seriously injure him," he called back over his shoulder before vanishing from sight.

Keren and Mathos approached Legolas while Renith secured the door. The two were smirking.

"We have orders to take you to the lord's chambers," said Mathos, a glint in his eye that Legolas did not like. "And if you don't cooperate, elf, we have been given permission to do what we like with you."

"Such impressive listening skills," Legolas replied dryly.

Their eyes darkened in anger, and Keren produced some metal shackles from his belt and started towards the Elf. "Come on, elf…come here…"

Legolas's eyes widened in mock consideration. "So you can use those—" he indicated with a nod of his head towards the shackles— "to bind me? Let me think…" he tilted his head to the side, staring at them thoughtfully. "…um…no."

"Fine then," said Keren, looking more pleased than he should at the elf's blatant refusal. This arrogance, Legolas decided, would have to be dealt with."I guess we'll have to do this the hard way."

"I guess so," said Legolas breezily. He wondered why Aragorn had left him with only three guards when the man knew perfectly well that the Elf would be able to dispose of such a small number with ease.

Mathos rushed at him from the front while Keren circled round him, clearly hoping to catch the elf from behind.

Legolas easily blocked the first blow aimed at his head from Mathos.

"You'll have to do better than that if you hope to take me to Aragorn within the next fortnight," he taunted them.

Growling incoherently, Keren aimed a kick at his stomach. Reaching down, Legolas was able to grab the outstretched leg and twist it hard before shoving the man backwards by the bottom of his foot. To finish the job nicely he stepped over and cleanly broke the leg at the calf.

"I am sorry I had to do that," he said regrettfully as the man wheezed on the ground, clutching his leg and glaring at the elf through pain-filled eyes.

Now Renith had joined the fight. He drew his sword and was advancing upon the Elf who was nonchalantly toying with the second human to cross him.

Legolas glanced over as the sun caught the glint of the sword. "Ah, ah," he said reprovingly. "I thought Aragorn told you not to injure me?" he said with a raised brow.

"_Seriously_ injure," corrected Renith with a snarl.

"Well," Legolas said with the air of one doing some great thinking. "Somehow I believe he meant you were not to use any unnatural weapons on me. You see, I believe that severed limbs or pierced gullets qualify as 'serious injuries', and it is unlikely that anything less than that shall happen when cold steel such as the tool in your hand is involved."

"Huh?" Puzzled by the eloquent speech, Renith scowled deeply at the elf for speaking in such refined manner; he was unused to such finery of speech. "Fine, then, you don't want me using a sword—cooperate, and I'll put it away."

"Ah…" said Legolas, with very wide, innocent eyes, trying hard to keep his mirth off his face. "I see. If I agree to be bound, you shall replace your sword into its proper sheath."

"Aye," Renith agreed. Mathos had stopped trying to take on Legolas single-handedly; he was now standing a little behind Renith. It pleased Legolas to see the guard looking very apprehensive. He supposed that the large purple bruise forming on Mathos's left cheek might be the reason why.

"Oh, very well," Legolas sighed, the very face of innocence and compliance. "I do not wish to face your sword unarmed—come here, bind me." He held out his wrists obligingly.

"I knew you could be reasonable," grunted Renith. Legolas could easily read his eyes: _this way it'll be easier to play with him, anyway._ He sheathed his sword and Legolas mentally laughed at what a complete idiot he was.

Renith took the shackles from Keren, ignoring his fellow's groans of pain, and approached Legolas with them.

The second the cold metal snapped closed around Legolas's left wrist, the Elf sprung into action. Yanking his right wrist far from the left so it could not be caught in the same trap, he swung the shackles around and hit Renith directly in the face with them.

"Bloody elf!" Renith swore as the red liquid poured from his nose. It appeared to have broken, Legolas thought with satisfaction. Fumbling, the human tried the reach his sword with one hand and hold his hurting nose with the other, but the second the weapon left his sheath Legolas had knocked it from his hand. He picked it up and used the flat side to quickly knock Renith senseless. He sprinted to where Keren was sitting whimpering, and did the same to him. The man slumped over lifelessly, though Legolas knew he was not dead.

He then turned to Mathos, who was shaking, wide-eyed now that the tables had been turned and suddenly the little game had turned against him. His own sword was drawn, though he quickly discovered it was quite useless against the far more skilled elf.

"Shall we duel?" Legolas said brightly.

The 'duel' lasted for about three seconds—one second for Legolas to bound over to Mathos, one second for the elf to knock the sword from his opponent's hand, and one second to knock the guard into darkness for a few hours.

"Entirely too easy," Legolas said aloud. He retrieved the key to the shackles from Keren's pack and in doing so discovered three more pairs of shackles. He hooked the guards' hands together and used their own cuffs to bind their hands. He still had the pair they had tried to use on him, so he unlocked them and stuck them on his own belt for future use.

The door was locked, but Legolas discovered that the key to this door was also contained on Renith's belt. Pleased at what a fool the man was, he cautiously unlocked the door and peered outside.

The dark corridor was deserted.

Legolas crept down the hallway, keeping to the walls as much as he could. He came to a corner and began to creep around it, when suddenly voices sounded from the other side. Startled, the ring of keys nearly slipped from his grasp. He managed to catch them but in the process they scraped against the wall, causing the slightest of noises that nevertheless seemed to carry throughout the painfully echoey corridor.

He froze as the voices halted.

"What was that?" said one man. "I thought I heard something…"

"What was what?" snapped a second. "You're going daft, Ethin, I swear…oh! Ah, yes, of course…right away. I'll get it straightaway."

Legolas had no idea what this last bit was about, but it didn't matter. He held his breath, and, much to his relief, the voices faded and eventually disappeared.

Swallowing, Legolas noiselessly sneaked around the corner, expecting to find a deserted hall.

He walked right into Aragorn instead.

He gave a gasp of surprise and tried to run backwards, but in an instant Aragorn had sprinted forward and, seizing the Elf around the waist, had tackled him and successfully pinned him to the ground.

"I thought that might be you," growled the human, anger unmistakably written all over his face. "Don't think I didn't hear you, or at least…" he glanced down and spotted the keys in the elf's hand. "I heard them. I assume my guards are dead, then?"

"Not dead," Legolas replied tightly, angry that he'd allowed himself to be caught so quickly and also trying to shrink the fear within him that accompanied being caught. "Injured and unconscious, maybe, but not dead. I do not kill for pleasure. I am not like you."

"Save it," Aragorn said shortly. He plucked the keys from Legolas as well as the spare shackles. Flipping the Elf easily onto his stomach he grasped his hands and closed the rings around Legolas's wrists.

He stood, and pulled Legolas up as well. "Walk," he commanded, a firm hand on his shoulder like a rudder, guiding the Elf.

Legolas resented the order, but he knew he was in deep enough trouble already, so he didn't fight it.

After turning a few more corners and crossing an empty courtyard, Legolas was lead to a small collection of rooms, one of which Aragorn unlocked and pushed him into. A small entourage of tough-looking men—considerably more worthy opponents than those Legolas had just disposed of—was waiting for them.

Aragorn closed and locked the door behind them. He shoved the Elf towards the men—there were five in all—and tossed one of them the keys.

"You know where to bind him," was all he said as he sat down on a chair near the window and watched and waited.

The shackles were removed from his wrists, but not for long. In fact, the instant they had been unlocked Legolas found himself being dragged to the floor and held there. The left shackle was placed around his respective wrist, and the right was looped around one of the feet of the bed before being locked onto his other wrist.

His ankles were likewise secured, only to a permanent lamppost instead. Apprehension gnawed at him yet he hid it under a mask of cool calm. His stomach flipped when his upper tunic was ripped from his back. He had been tortured before, but that did not mean that each time he was presented with it again he did not fear it. Staring at the floor he could not see what they were doing, but he heard Aragorn say, "All right, that's fine. You may go. Wait outside."

He heard the sound of booted feet obediently exiting, and then of the door shutting.

Aragorn picked up a match and lit a candle near the bedside, a madly satisfied look on his face.

Legolas was puzzled for a moment; it was broad daylight and no extra light was required.

It cme closer to his skin and reality set in rather dully. He could feel it…the flame descended on his skin…mauling it, scorching it, kissing his flesh with a red flame of death…

He gritted his teeth against the impending pain, having no intentions of showing any pain at all.

The door opened.

Suddenly the torment stopped as quickly as it had begun.

Legolas looked up to find Aragorn glaring irritably at the man who'd dared interrupt him.

"What?" he snapped at someone Legolas could not see.

"My lord," came an apologetic man's voice. "The delegate…is here…I did not think you would want to keep him waiting, sir…"

"Fool!" The look on Aragorn's face at having been interrupted before he had even begun to torture his prisoner mde the guard shrink away. Legolas saw Aragorn throw a quick glance at his prisoner then back to the man at the door.

"Tell him I'm coming," he snapped. He stood up, putting the candle aside.

"Rest while you can," he sneered at Legolas. "I will be back."

He left with the guard.

Legolas sighed, relief that he knew would not last long sweeping through him. He had gotten lucky.

He would be left alone.

For now.

**Meep. Okay, so that chapter was NEARLY the same as it was originally. Anyway. Review, please. Danke.**


	4. Tandems

I am profusely sorry for the lie I told last chapter. It was unintentional, I swear. I honest to heaven tried to get a new chapter up like I promised. But writer's block had stuck its needle in my brain, paralyzing my muse until the poisonous cramp had been removed and she was once again set free to inspire.

**Chapter 4**

Morning dawned entirely too early for Legolas Thranduilion. He stifled a moan, trying in vain to stretch his aching muscles which had been forced to remain in the same position all night. He was incredibly suspicious of having been left all alone the entire night. After Aragorn had left, he had not returned at all. Light had crept silkily into the room and the sun was now nearing its highest point in the sky and still his captor had yet to return. In his mind Legolas darkly figured Aragorn was out planning some sadistic torture for the elf. Hardly a comforting thought.

Suddenly the door banged open. Aragorn, accompanied by several heavily armed guards, stepped across the threshold. He looked tired and ill-tempered, though something malicious gleamed behind his eyes, like the glint of a sword. He said nothing, only indicated to his men to remove the elf.

Legolas was ready for them. The second one of his hands had been removed from their bonds he twisted it free from the hand of the guard and smashed it into the nearest nose. A man dropped to his knees, howling in pain and clutching his face. Blood streamed from between his fingers as he glared at the elf through eyes glazed by pain and hatred. His victory didn't last long, though. The instant his fist had flown through the air and hit its mark Legolas felt crushing pain on his wrist and cold steel at his throat. Dark eyes leered down at him in anger.

"Try that one again, elf," a burly guard hissed. "I would love to see you try. Do not think I would not slit your throat."

"Slit mine and your master shall slit yours, fool," Legolas replied tightly. He knew it was bold to answer with a sword at his throat, but he also knew his retort had equal truth: Aragorn wanted him alive and would probably kill the man who dared touch him without express permission. The man's small eyes darkened in anger. He drew back a fist to punch the elf when Aragorn spoke.

"Stop."

The guard halted immediately.

"That was not ordered," Aragorn said in a dangerously silky voice. "Do explain your intentions."

"I uh, well, I just thought—" stuttered the man. Legolas observed with some grim satisfaction that the guard was extremely frightened of Aragorn. That could work later to his advantage. Clearing his throat, the man pulled himself together. "I thought, Lord Aragorn sir, that were he unconscious, he would be easier to collect. 'Tis all, sir. No disrespect intended, sir, and my deepest apologies if that were so."

Aragorn nodded, a tiny smile curling the edges of his mouth. Legolas realized with revulsion how much he was enjoying the man's groveling. "Apology accepted, Tisdal. I thank you for thoughtfulness. However…" his smile widened. "I have a much better punishment in mind for dear Prince Legolas." He motioned with his hand. "Get him up, and let us be off."

His eyes shifted to the elf lying prostrate on the floor at his feet. "I advise you, Legolas, not to resist. You have an unpleasant future yet, and 'tis doubtful you should like to toy with the one who can and will make that future your worst nightmare."

The guard removed his knee from Legolas's wrist, eyeing the elf with hatred. When Legolas stirred to resist again, Aragorn nodded ever so slightly. Without warning, the hilt of Tisdal's sword smashed painfully into his face. Unprepared for it, Legolas cried out, before everything fell into a steep black oblivion.

-D-

Legolas awoke to find himself in chains. He wasn't surprised. After defying Aragorn yet again he was actually mildly surprised to find he was not strapped down to be beaten. His entire face ached, and he could feel dried blood crusted on the corner of his mouth.

"Sir." Tisdal caught Aragorn's attention with a muttered word. "Sir, the prisoner is awake."

"Ah, good." Aragorn peered into Legolas's bruised, swollen face. "Not feeling very well, are we, Legolas? That is the price for disobedience. But no doubt you will learn to obey by the end.."

"Never," Legolas spat, his pride rearing up within him. Aragorn merely gazed with feigned pity at the elf.

"Then I am afraid you have a difficult lesson to learn now," was all he said. Deeper and deeper they went until Legolas actually felt a little chilled from the depth underground they were. Finally they turned a corridor and Legolas saw a door ahead. A door appearing to lead to a very small, very dark little room. Fear welled up within him, a fear he fought desperately to quash down. It would never do to show them his terror of small and dark places…though he bitterly reflected it to be a fear which Aragorn knew well he possessed. His apprehension mounted as he was dragged closer and closer.

The door was unlocked and he was shoved in, followed by a few guards while Aragorn waited outside, watching. A satisfied smirk played around his lips.

His eyes adjusting quicker than the men's to the darkness, Legolas's eyes sought out all four corners of the tiny room. Then his heart dropped in absolute terror as he spotted in the corner an even tinier metal box: a _cage._ He stopped in his tracks, terror in his eyes, as one of the men headed forward and unlocked the door to the cage. He would not, _would not _enter in there. They could threaten him, they could beat him. But he would not let them lock him up in a cage, in the utter black. He hated the dark. He hated small, enclosed spaces. In fact, the only times he ever panicked were times like these, when circumstances threatened to keep him away in a cold, dark enclosed space. And Aragorn knew that. He knew that this was indeed the worst torture he could exact on the elf.

"No! No! Daro!" he thrashed wildly as the guards laid threatening arms on his own, dragging the claustrophobic elf towards the inhumane metal box.

"Release me, sons of Sauron!" he hissed, straining with all his might against the men. He ignored the muttered curses and blows they were attempting to land on him. His heart pounded fiercely and only one thought entered into his head: that he _must not_ go into there. He had been locked up cruelly thus many years ago and it had nearly killed him. Twisting his head around he peered desperately at Aragorn, hoping against hope that even in the man's madness and cruelty he might be spared _this_—for Aragorn knew well how claustrophobic the elf was and how he hated the closed and dark…but Aragorn stood quite still, arms crossed on his chest, watching the proceedings with a self-satisfied smirk alight his lips.

Like a madman Legolas was lashing out at anyone he could reach. Several of the guards were swearing loudly at him. Even in chains he was more difficult to restrain than most of the prisoners they were used to. Several men attempting to restrain his flailing arms ended up with bruises and scratches. Legolas didn't care what they did to him for it; if it was a few more seconds out of that _thing_ he could deal with it.

Suddenly a large fist sunk itself deep into the elf's stomach. Legolas doubled over, wheezing, gasping for breath, and the men took advantage of this to force his arms behind his back and his head and shoulders into the cage. Overbalanced, the elf crashed down onto his knees. The guards made quick work of shoving the rest of his body into the tiny structure fit for animals. Though sickeningly it was obvious it had _not _been made for animals, but for people. There was enough room for the elf to lie down, with his knees slightly bent and his neck slightly curled, but that was all. There was no way he could sit up, nor stretch.

And thus the Prince of Mirkwood lay curled up in a ball, thin frame shaking, mentally berating himself for the weakness he was showing but fear and claustrophobia overwhelming all his senses.

"'Tis not fun, is it, Legolas?" Aragorn mocked softly from the doorway. Legolas refused to benefit him with a response. He forced himself to stop shaking, but a slight cry did escape his lips. He bit his lip fiercely, determined not to allow them to think they had beaten him. He would never be subdued by Men. Never.

"What was that?" Aragorn asked in malicious delight. "Do you not like the dark, Legolas?" he taunted, dark glee alight on his features. Legolas clenched his jaw, refusing to answer.

_I hope you fall into Orodruin_, he cursed the man silently.

"So defiant," the human smirked softly. Arrogance and malice exuded from him like a foul odor. He clicked his tongue mockingly. "Well, that will change, dear prince…that will change."

Then the door was shut. There was absolutely no light whatsoever in the cell within the cell. He could hear nothing from outside. A choking sob welled up within him, threatening to break loose. Pain he could handle. Ridicule was water off a duck's back to him. But this…enclosing a body meant for freedom was one of the worst tortures available.

And so the Prince of Mirkwood curled into a ball so he could pretend there were no bars, and shut his eyes so he could not see the dark.

-D-

Meanwhile, the true Heir of Isildur and Legolas's father were searching in vain for their fallen comrade.

"I cannot find anything," said Aragorn in frustration. "Naught, it appears, is left to be found. His captors knew truly what they did when he was stolen. No evidence beyond what was found already is apparent."

"So they are skilled, then," Thranduil murmured, looking troubled. "And if this skilled they be in hiding their tracks one can only wonder what skill we may encounter when we should find them."

_When, _not _if_, he said, though both had a tiny voice in the back of their minds wondering if it would ever be. They had found themselves on several false trails, and it was discouraging. This was particularly true for Aragorn, for being a Ranger he was accustomed to being able to find anything he set his mind to uncover. Now, when their search had thus far yielded nothing at all, he was beginning to doubt his own skills and wonder if perhaps his match had been met.

"I wonder if we shall ever find any trace of him at all," he grumbled slightly, letting his sour mood and the complete lack of facts get to him. "He is gone—vanished—and with no explanation. Perhaps we are no contention and our search is in vain."

"Speak not in such discouraging manner," Thrandiul reprimanded sharply. Aragorn's shoulders slumped; the last thing he needed right now was to be corrected, though he knew Thranduil was right. Voicing their discouragement was voicing gloom, and that was not likely to be helpful to their current situation. He slowly blew out his breath in a sigh, recognizing that Thranduil was probably just as discouraged as the Ranger; he simply chose to show it in more mature ways.

"You are right, Highness," he said slowly, not grudgingly, but a little reluctantly. "I apologize—'tis no way for one who calls himself grown to be behaving. I will endeavor to be more uplifting."

Flowery language, but Legolas had always said that was how his father spoke, and liked it when others spoke that way too. He was stuck traveling with Thranduil for Valar knew how long—he might as well be on the king's good side.

Thranduil's face twisted in a wry grin. "Been picking up tips from my son, have you? Very well, Ranger—you may 'endeavor', as you have so eloquently put it, just bear in mind that eternal optimism may just as much grate on my nerves as downtrodden words."

"Optimism uplifts the spirit, while sourness builds contention, where then shall I find balance?" Aragorn inquired, his mood lightening at the banter.

"Find it yourself, adan, else know that the wrath of a Silvan elf is not to be toyed with," Thranduil replied evenly.

"I have heard the same of the Noldor elves," Aragorn said with a quick grin. "Whose tale shall I believe? For I hold close acquaintance with both; useful information that may prove indeed!"

Thranduil shook his head. "Your quick tongue may land you in more trouble than any legion of elves shall ever impart, human. Be wary and think oft to keep it in check."

"But I have heard that a man's wit can be his greatest ally," Aragorn said quickly, rather knowing he was pushing his luck. "Shall I then keep in check that which may destroy my enemies?"

"Blast it all, Ranger," Thranduil grumbled. "Has never your father, the legendary Lord Elrond, taught you to keep still and respect your elders?"

"Yea and nay," replied Aragorn thoughtfully, hiding a grin at his answer, which was sure to infuriate the already-agitated king.

"By the Valar!" Thranduil threw up his hands. "You have spent far too much time with Elves, young one, that much is evident."

"Something most Elves would quite condone and call me wiser for, possessing a knack for claiming credit for all good wherever they venture," Aragorn quipped swiftly, a definite twinkle of mischief in his eyes. He had to duck a deftly thrown knife at this point—Thranduil had apparently had quite enough of Aragorn's cheek.

"Sorry, milord," he injected swiftly, after Thranduil, looking quite murderous, had reached for a second knife. He cast a guilty smile at the king, one he had been fighting to contain during the entire course of the banter.

"No harm done, _child,_" Thranduil grumbled, putting emphasis on his current opinion of Aragorn. "Now," he said pointedly. "May we resume our original intentions?"

"As my Lord the king wishes!" Aragorn couldn't help but sweep into a huge theatrical bow as a last jab. Thranduil rolled his eyes in a most un-kingly, un-elfly manner which nearly made Aragorn start up all over again. He sobered immediately upon seeing Thranduil glance meaningfully at the knives at the king's own belt.

"Sorry, milord," he apologized again. The playful mood was fading, a soberly realistic atmosphere settling in its place. "I wish of course to resume our search for our missing prince."

He pulled a map from his pack and set it on a nearby stump, motioning for Thranduil to take a closer look.

"See, here, my lord," he indicated to a spot on the map. "This is Blood Gulch. 'Tis a small human…civilization." He paused. 'Town' would have indicated some order. In Blood Gulch there certainly was none.

Thranduil, noticing his pause, raised an eyebrow in question.

"It is a town of drunkards and whores," Aragorn admitted reluctantly. "However…" he paused again, knowing the king was not going to like what he was going to say. "We are very short on supplies, milord. Blood Gulch is the only town within thirty or forty miles of our current location. We must enter into it, if even only for a short while, to regain supplies and other needs."

"A town of drunk men and, er, loose women?" Thranduil looked uncertain, and Aragorn sighed mentally. Elves, particularly those of the Mirkwood strain, tended to be a little close-minded about that sort of thing. Not that Aragorn supported the drunk lifestyle, but sometimes it was necessary to venture into their midst.

"I will not," he declared, Aragorn thought, a little childishly. "You may go, Aragorn, and collect supplies for us. I and my guards shall remain here." It was evident the distaste the king had for humans, and his complete reluctance to be involved with them, though understandable, was a little taxing.

"Sir," Aragorn said patiently. "I do not believe that to be wise. There is first the danger in splitting up." When Thranduil opened his mouth to protest Aragorn held up a peaceful hand, begging leave to finish his thoughts. The king sighed and nodded. "While I know you and your guards are completely battle-capable, I fear the danger in becoming lost. With all due respect, my lord, you are unfamiliar with the area. If danger should arise and you are forced to flee you shall know not where to go, and furthermore, I should not know where to find you. It would be an unnecessary and troublesome delay. And, my lord, I have been to the town before. They refuse to provide any man with supplies fit for more than the party he presents. 'Tis their way of ensuring every man is known to them." He sighed. "The only semblance of order they _do_ have there, and an irritating measure to say the least." He turned his attention back to the apprehensive elf-king. "It is with this reasoning do I request you and your guards accompany myself into Blood Gulch," he said, and respectfully fell silent and waited for a reply.

Thranduil sat still and quiet for a moment. At length, he muttered, "It is a vile name." Aragorn did not reply, waiting. Finally Thranduil sighed. "Very well, Aragorn," he said. "I can find no flaw with your reasoning. We shall all travel together."

Aragorn acknowledge this with a respectful nod of his head. "Thank you, my lord." He hesitated. "If it pleases you, sire, I will handle the talking. Hopefully the bartender will be in a good mood and require only bodies, not faces. You may desire, sir, to have you and your elves covered in a hood whilst we venture in there."

Thranduil looked at him sharply. "You did not state that this place was unfriendly to elves," he intoned. "I am king and it does not feel well to be forced to hide my identity." He stared Aragorn in the eye, demanding an answer. Aragorn swallowed.

"It is not exactly…_unfriendly_…." He started, unsure of how to put it. "It's just that…well, milord, elves are not an oft occurrence. In fact, most men there are likely never to have set eyes on one before. I merely meant not to draw unnecessary attention to our party."

"Three hooded figures will surely draw attention," Thranduil murmured, looking thoughtful. Aragorn waited. Thranduil spoke again. "The guards shall remain at the edge of the wood," he announced decisively. When Aragorn opened his mouth to protest Thranduil held up a hand, silencing him. "I shall…persuade…the barkeep to give us the supplies we need for them," he said. "And whilst they wait, I shall send the others to find game. Surely there must be a deer or a few rabbits within the vicinity."

And nothing Aragorn said could change the king's mind. Too much attention, he insisted. That and Aragorn thought he was probably looking forward to bullying the unsuspecting barkeep into giving them more than they were allotted. He couldn't say he blamed him. After days of nonactivity the king was probably more than a little bored. So finally Aragorn relented. He reflected vaguely that it might be for the better anyway, the men of Blood Gulch had been known for their...unsavory tastes...in...simliar flesh. A point which Aragorn had rather conveniently neglected to bring up with the king.

They arranged a meeting spot, as well as a backup meeting place just in case the two elves should have to flee. Unlikely as it was, Aragorn insisted that they should flee, and not fight, if they were attacked. Thranduil was violently opposed to what he viewed as cowardice, but Aragorn persisted, reminding him that though his elves were excellent warriors, they could be overtaken. That and subtlety was the best option. If attackers knew not who the elves were they could not possibly begin to suspect their mission. Thus, the two elves would do some hunting, get some rest, and keep watch, per Thranduil's decision.

And then side-by-side an apprehensive elven king and a wary yet confident young Ranger set off into the gloom that was Blood Gulch.

----

Yippee, finally, a new chapter. And five is already in the works. Review, por favor, and I shall be much obliged (and motivated). Thank you for sticking with me!

TRS


	5. The Light of the Eldar

-**Chapter 5**-

It is to be assumed that Legolas was not faring nearly so well as his friend and father searching for him. Indeed, the poor elf was suffering quite miserably under his wretched circumstances. Three days had passed since his captors had placed him in his murderously tight quarters, and he had heard naught from them since. Nothing. No food shoved under the door, not a torch lighting the hallway. It had remained completely and totally dark. He could not see his hand in front of his face. There had been no voices near, not even a rat scuttling to its hiding place in the cracks in the walls. There was nothing at all.

Four days passed.

Five.

Six.

Legolas was becoming desperate. He could feel his pride being chipped away. He wanted so much to hear a voice, to see something. Sometimes it drove him to cry out just to hear _something_. Every time his hands touched the metal bars around him he shuddered violently. So he tried to remain still at all times. His muscles cramped up horribly, yet every time he tried to stretch he was reminded of how there was no room, how he was trapped, and the walls felt like they were surely moving in on him…

He clenched his teeth. This was pathetic. They had barely laid a finger on him and he was already cracking. He would just have to strengthen his resolve. There was no way Aragorn would get the best of him.

But as the hours turned to days, days turning into a week and then another half, he could feel himself weakening. It was pathetic, he knew, and he hated himself for it. But the dark, close space was absolutely driving him to insanity. With every breath he drew he was reminded of the closeness. And he longed for the voice of another living being. Days of dark solitary confinement would make even the most defiant wither. He began imagining shapes in the dark, before he caught himself and wondered, frightened suddenly, if he might be going mad. He thought he could hear people speaking, and when he strained to listen, they laughed at him. And he thought he could hear music.

Besides the torments of mind he was also feeling a prickling in his stomach. Elves could last for a very long time with little or no nourishment, but Legolas hadn't eaten in well over a week. He was famished, a ravishing hunger sweeping his body. They had left him with no food, and he had not eaten at all since his capture. He was beginning to wonder if they merely intended to leave him there until he died.

Ridiculous elf, one of the voices said. Legolas vaguely figured that there was probably more they wanted to do with him, and they likely wouldn't want him to simply kick the bucket right there. No, it was too soon. Hardly a comforting thought.

He had grasped the bars many times, though his revulsion of them was full, and many times he had slammed his fists, head and any other available parts against the bars, screaming in pure frustration. He could not comprehend being left in here much longer. With not a crack of light, not a crumb of food and not a vocal note in well over a week, the prince found himself quickly sucuumbing to despair. He would give almost anything to be out of here. He didn't care what he had to say, he just needed a breath of fresh air. He needed the light. Elves were not unlike flowers: remove the light and they fade and wither. Indeed, Legolas's limbs had recently begun to shake uncontrollably at periods during the day. His skin, could he have seen it, was pasty and cold. Despair overcame his thoughts at many times of the day. At times he felt compelled to tear at his hair, screaming, for if only he could get out of here….

Then, at long last, after eleven days in the utter dark, cold and horrible, horrible closeness, the door cracked open and was quickly filled by a tall, arrogant silhouette. Legolas nearly cried for joy at seeing light for the first time in nearly a fortnight.

"My, Legolas," came Aragorn's low, sneering voice. "Are you actually happy to see me? I knew it would happen…"

"I—" Legolas swallowed. He wanted desperately to be out of here, in chains or not, just as long as the dark would go away. He dared not make Aragorn angry, for as easily as he had opened the door he could close it again, leaving the elf to confinement and the dark…

"I…am pleased to see you," he said in a low, emotionless tone. Aragorn actually threw back his head and laughed. It was a coarse, unpleasant sound which made Legolas flinch rather violently.

"Are you sure?" Aragorn smirked. "You don't sound very sure, Legolas. Perhaps I should just…?" he left the question unanswered but started slowly creaking the door shut.

"No!" the word ripped itself from Legolas's throat before he could stop it, and he secretly cursed himself for his weakness.

"No?" Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Then what, pray, should I do, _ernil_?"

Legolas gritted his teeth. Aragorn was taunting him, baiting him. He knew he would have to play along for now if he ever wanted to get out of here.

"Get me out of here," he hissed, thoroughly hating himself for sounding like such a child.

"Yes, I thought you might say that," the despicable human said. A smile slowly twisted the corners of his mouth. "Very well," he said, and motioned with his hand for two guards to enter.

They pulled the grateful—yet loathing them all the while—elf from his cage. Legolas immediately arched his back and stretched. He knew not how much of the solitary confinement he would have been able to endure.

Aragorn looked at him expectantly.

"Yes?" demanded the elf, rather irritably.

"Are not you going to thank me, Legolas?" the adan asked smoothly. "I thought we had been over this already. Did never your father teach you better manners?"

"You kept me locked in a cage for near a fortnight with naught a bite to eat nor light to cheer," Legolas said tightly, his jaw and fists clenched. "Pray tell, Aragorn, what I have to thank you for."

Aragorn made a tsking noise in his throat. He mock-sighed and indicated again to the guards. They immediately began dragging the elf back to his tiny confinement. Legolas blanched visibly and struggled.

"Wait," he said desperately. "Wait—I—"

"Halt," Aragorn ordered, holding up a hand. He leered at the elf. "Yes, Legolas? Is there something you wanted to say?" he smiled sweetly, and Legolas's desire to punch him in the face doubled.

"I—thank you," the elf said stiffly, refusing to meet the human's eye.

"For what, dear prince?" the nasty smile widened, and Legolas longed dearly to remove several teeth from that gross excuse for a smile.

"For—releasing me," he said, even more stiffly.

Aragorn tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I think there is something you have forgotten still. Did we not already discuss how I am to be addressed?"

When Legolas stubbornly refused to reply, the human continued,

"But of course if you do not remember, there are certainly ways of…refreshing your memory," he finished with a meaningful glance at the loathsome torture device behind them.

Beating down his pride, the elf replied as graciously as he could manage—approximately equivalent to the grace of addressing a warg—

"_Sir_," he gritted out through clenched teeth.

Aragorn sighed. "That will have to do, I suppose. We wouldn't want you back in there anyway, too many better things to do…"

He motioned and the guards jerkily led the elf out of the cell. He blinked as the blessed light streaned rather painfully into his deprived eyes—and jerked violently as a strip of dark cloth was roughly bound about his eyes.

"Give him nourishment, get him prepared. You may use….force…if necessary…" Aragorn sounded bored. "Bring him to me when you have finished. He need not rest. I daresay he has had plenty of it over the last fornight…" His cruel laughted echoed down the long hallway as he exited their presence.

Legolas bit his lip in frustration as he was forced into a kneeling position and a cup was thrust roughly to his lips.

"Drink," hissed a guard.

"What is it?" Legolas began to demand, but his head was pulled back and his jaw forced open as they poured the liquid down his throat. Coughing and sputtering, he doubled over, gasping for breath.

"'Tis only water, fool," said Tisdal with disdain. "We'd not poison ye without Lord's orders. He said he desired ye nourished, no? Then nourished you'll be, like it or not, and it's best for you if you cooperate. Forget not that the Lord decreed we may harm you should you resist."

When Legolas was silent, Tisdal dug his foot into the elf's side and demanded, "Are we clear, elf?"

"Aye. We are," was the elf's only response. It would do no good to argue with the man. Tisdal seemed disappointed with the lack of response and so shoved a square of bread into the elf's mouth to assuage his anger.

"Chew," he commanded forcefully. Legolas obediently chewed and swallowed. Tisdal waited, obviously hoping to goad the elf into actually _asking_ for more, but when Legolas remained stubbornly patient, the man, scowling, forcefully jammed another bite into the unnvervingly silent prince's mouth.

At the finish of this morsel, he again paused. Legolas barely restrained himself rolling his eyes. The fool was being ridiculous. Merely getting a meal was going to take all night at this idiot's sluggardly pace.

"Dear Illuvatar," Legolas drawled boredly. "Intend you to turn this simple process into an all-night drama? You must know how to insert food into another's mouth. Surely you cannot be as deprived of brains as you look. Obviously you must have done it for yourself your entire life, though if your intelligence matches your looks it is beyond me how you even managed that…"

He smirked, knowing perfectly well that he would pay the price for his cheek, but it was worth it to imagine the bright spots of color now flooding the man's face.

"Why, you ungrateful little…" Tisdal hissed, drawing back a fist and striking the elf squarely in the gut. Legolas, expecting the blow, caught it well, though doubling up nonetheless. Whatever the human lacked in brainpower her certainly made up for in strength. Roughly seizing the elf's long hair he forced his head against the wall as he threw blows all over his unprotected body. Several minutes of abuse later had the elf on the floor, body aching with bruises, but pride fully intact. He had endured far worse before. It had been worth a few bruises to see the man's rage. Though he did not know it Legolas had gotten the better of him.

"Know what, elf?" Tisdal said viciously when he had finished his abuse. "I think that's plenty of food for you. And this…" he shoved the flask into the elf's unresisting mouth. Legolas narrowly avoided gagging on it by tilting his head forward so it did not instantly drain down his throat.

"That's plenty of water. You're fine and dandy to go. Lord Aragorn will be waiting." He spat, unaware that a few bites of bread and a few mouthfuls of water would actually sustain the elf quite well for the time being.

Legolas wondered how exactly the word _dandy_ had entered into the man's vocabulary.

"Up," commanded Tisdal, jerking him to his feet. Legolas remained motionless while they pulled a fresh shirt over his head after removing the old one. He held his head high with disdain. After a few moments more, he was lead out of the hall by a cord attached to the bonds keeping captive his hands. It seemed to be a bit brighter, but the fabric over his eyes was doing well its job and keeping the light-starved elf in almost complete darkness.

After what was in the elf's estimation thirty or forty minutes of walking, a sudden shove from behind made the elf stumble forward. It was only when he heard the sudden dull roar of a crowd, and felt hostile human presence close to him, that he realized he had been thrust over a threshold into daylight.

He stopped so suddenly that the guard to his rear nearly ran into him. Eyes narrowing behind the blindfold, he breathed in the deceitfully fresh air deeply, cautiously. He tested the air, sifting it through his senses.

The air was dirty, he surmised carefully, full of turmoil…tension, and excitement, ran high…he could hear a rowdy, jeering crowd…and the stench of blood ran unmistakably through the other strains. Behind him, the guard swore and shoved the butt of his spear into the elf, forcing him to move again. They kept the milder pace up for only a few moments. Legolas could sense earthy ground beneath his padded feet. He could hear a crowd, fairly far above him, jeering at someone he could not see nor sense. Suddenly he was forced to his knees by the blunt spear tip again. A rough hand on the nape of his neck forced his head down in submission. Sardonically the elf figured he must be in front of Aragorn; besides, the man's scent had long been on the air. Compelled to remain in this humiliating position, he did what he could. He defiantly spat on the ground at the man's feet. He tensed, readying himself for the blow that was sure to come, but none did.

Indeed, Aragorn was laughing. "Nay, Tisdal—would that his blood not be spilled before its time…"

"Yes, lord," the gruff and obviously disappointed voice of the chief guard acknowledged reluctantly.

"Place him within," Aragorn commanded. Legolas's heart momentarily froze, before he gathered himself together for what was sure to come. Aragorn's words confirmed what he had suspected earlier: an arena. He had been brought into an arena, and surely a fighter better-equipped and far more nourished waited with sickening eagerness to try his luck with an elf.

His bonds were unlocked, but the blindfold was not removed. When he queried this, he was spat upon and laughed at. They warned him if he was to remove it he would be instantly killed. A knife was thrust into his hands, and he was shoved into what must be a circular structure. He could feel the earthy ground again, and heard the grinding of the iron door behind him as the key turned in its lock.

He cautiously ran his finger along the edge of the knife, testing it. He estimated it to be perhaps twelve inches long, and fairly sharp—a good knife, it seemed, but quite likely to be unfit for the challenge he was about to face.

"Dear friends!" Aragorn's voice loomed over the crowd, and they immediately fell silent. "Thank you for joining me for this death match…we have a special presentation for you today. Legolas, elf-prince of Mirkwood, has agreed to join us here today!"

The crowd both booed and mocked, screaming profanities and insults at him. Legolas felt only disgust. Insults flowed right through him.

"And the human…well, his name matters not, for he is a slave…but today he has the chance to win his freedom! Kill the elf, slave, and freedom is yours!"

The crowd crowed and screamed even louder. They seemed to be having a terrific laugh at something unknown to Legolas, like an inside joke. His insides curled, wondering what this mystery element was that would undoubtedly affect him.

"Now…" hissed the man Legolas used to call friend. "You fight to the death. _Begin._"

It was a few seconds before anyhting happened. Legolas remained stock-still, tensing, waiting for attack. And it came, in the form of a whip singing down to make contact on his bare back. Legolas swore. Whipping swiftly around he managed to catch the whip in his knife. Snapping his arm down he heard, with satisfaction, the cruel cord snap. Unfortunately, his opponent seemed to have more than one, and Legolas had not even rendered the first one completely useless. Now he blindly fought an unknown man who was armed far better than he, and additionally could see who he was fighting.

As the whip came whistling down again Legolas was forced to do a ridiculous kind of pirouette to avoid being struck. The mass screamed and hooted even louder than before.

For what seemed like hours he danced away from the human. Several times he could not jumped out of the way in time and had multiple bloody lashes decorating his body as a result. He could never get close enough to injure the other, and if had been thinking clearly he would have realized that this was a ridiculous 'death match'. Neither seemed to have been given weapons which would really injure the other. One would be hard-pressed to kill with a whip, and a knife did little good when the bearer could not see to throw nor become close enough to slash.

There was a sudden searing, red-hot pain in his shoulder. He gave a cry and dropped temporarily to his knees, the pain blinding him. He groped for his shoulder and felt the thick wooden pole of a spear protruding from it. He wondered dizzily why the opponent had not used this before, but dismissed it as waves of pain wracked his body. He rose unsteadily to his feet, trying to to stumble, but the pain was immense. But he knew what he had to do, if he wanted to get out of here alive…

Gritting his teeth, he roughly clamped a shaking hand on the hilt of the spear. Then, steeling himself against what he knew was going to be the worst pain he'd felt in years, he tore it straight out of its wound. The elf prince howled in pain and dropped once again to his knees, clutching the shoulder from which blood now poured freely. The pain was agonizing, devastating…but he had to get up, had to continue, for if he didn't, he would surely die…

Suddenly he heard the other stumble. The throng of bloodthirtsy onlookers was now screaming so loudly he felt his head was ringing. Rage and adrenaline fueled his efforts, the blinding pain making him almost incapable of rational thought. Without thinking, he stepped forward and made a wild grab. He felt his hand connect with a soft tunic. Pulling his adversary towards him he made a wild slash with the knife, swift and fatal…

And knew, a split second too late, that something was wrong. Something here was dreadfully, horribly wrong. He dropped his knife and fell to his knees.

He heard a choked gasp come from the being and realized, with a stab of horror, that this person did not carry himself the same way as the other fighter…that this person's aura was far different…that the bloodstained tunic was _soft_, actually _soft_, not made of rough cotton…

The rage he had felt upon being injured was fading, replaced by a desperate desire to find the truth. Clawing at his head, still breathing heavily from the fight and his shoulder still giving him hell, he tore off the stifling blindfold and blinked desperately, trying to force his eyes to adjust faster.

His heart sank in absolute dread as his vision finally cooperated and Legolas was able to see who it was that he had struck down, and probably injured fatally…

It was not the other fighter. This pale, bleeding figure had long, fine hair, and his eyes, though growing dimmer, still shone a bright blue…

Still shone, Legolas realized as a scream of pure rage and horror left his lips, with the light of the Eldar.

He had killed an elf.


	6. Light Extinguished, Light Forgotten

**-Chapter 6-**

"No…" A choked sob escaped Legolas's lips as he cradled the dying elf in his arms.

He could not…yet he had…taken the life of another immortal Eldar.

"S-so sorry…" he choked, unable to believe this turn of events. "Forgive me…"

"Legolas." The other's voice was rasped and strained. He spoke in barely a whisper, ensuring that no others would overhear.

"You know my name?" Legolas replied in an anguished whisper.

"Never…never mind it," gasped the other elf. Blood spilled openly from the gaping wound in his chest. "Thranduilion…_lín adar…ar adan…_" he coughed and gasped for air, choking and spitting blood. Legolas anxiously looked up; guards were quickly approaching them. The other elf would have to be quick.

"Danger, Legolas…tell your father…the human…he is not…not who he seems…"

Legolas's grip on the elf tightened unconsciously, his eyes darkening in fury. "_Istan_," he replied. "_Istan le gwarth…" _

The dying elf's eyes widened in alarm. "_Thranduilion-al! Adan_…_" _(Son of Thranduil, human)

But his strength was quickly draining as his body began to go into shock. He fumbled in a remote pocket. Legolas shifted his body ever so slightly so as to shield him from the ever-approaching guards…

Something cold and hard was shoved into his hands.

"_Heb-ten…istan thurin…adan…ho u-man thia…" _

"_Istan," _Legolas murmured into the other's ear, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Valar, he knew…

_"Namaarie…_Legolas…I hold you not at fault…_namaarie." _The last word ended in a sigh as the elf's spirit fled his body. His body slumped limply into Legolas's arms. Legolas hurriedly shoved whatever he had been given deep into a pocket of his breeches. He could examine it later. Now was not the time.

"_Sidh, mellon nin, gwador nin," _he whispered, laying a gentle hand over the unnamed elf's painfully wide-open eyelids, shutting them. Permanently. He bowed his head and wept silently for the passing of one of Illuvatar's chosen.

"Up! Elf! GET UP!"

Legolas rose slowly to his feet, though his mind barely registered the snarling voices of the guards. His head was buzzing. An elf, dead, by his blade…an elf who knew his name, who tried to warn him…all too late.

He lifted his head to gaze around the arena and realized with a dull shock that his true tormentor was none other than Tisdal, his jailer. Grinning maliciously at the elf from across the arena, he lifted a hand in a sadistic greeting. He had been the one thrashing Legolas all along…jumping back when Legolas came near…because of course he could see…

It had not been a death match after all. In fact, it was now obvious that neither Legolas nor his oppressor was intended to die. They were just supposed to prance about for awhile, for the bloodthirsty crowd's entertainment, seeing the blindfolded elf being stung and hit yet being unable to hit his opponent.

It was all clear as crystal, now. The entire 'fight' was a façade, designed to make Legolas believe he was fighting for his life when in reality he was only fighting a jester, and at the last moment…he had been tricked into believing he had an advantage…when in reality…at the very last second the unknown elf had been shoved into his path, not Tisdal…and they knew that the prince would react with lightning reflexes and, immediately sensing his advantage, would take it in full…slitting the throat of whom he believed to be a man attempting to kill him….

A dull, heavy weight had settled uncomfortably in the pit of Legolas's stomach. He felt lifeless, defeated. He had taken the life of another Eldar. This was the worst form of torture. It was his fault an elf was dead.

His hands curled into angry fists, desperate rage clawing at his insides. Aragorn, that _bastard_. That Wraith-spawn, that despicable excuse for a human.

He had managed to penetrate Legolas's utmost defenses and had done so leaving hardly a scratch on the Eldar body. His physical self was almost perfectly intact, but his soul…his mind, his spirit….these had been weakened by his long days spent in the utter dark and now were being utterly ripped to shreds by the terrific horror which he had been forced to commit. Sorrow and guilt are neither wrong emotions of themselves, but now it seemed they had surely teamed together and were now viciously attacking the core of Legolas's being.

Anger burned within him. He lifted his head and let out a despairing wail. It was truly the only way for him to express even close to what he felt. Elves often did such when their hearts ached deeply. Apparently it was not so among humans though, for the entire arena fell silent at his soul-piercing scream of agony. Even the guards stopped uncertainly, staring warily at the tense, pain-wracked Prince of Mirkwood.

Suddenly a strange, insane sense of calm came over him. He still had his weapon. He knew what he had to do. It was the only thing that made sense right now. His burning eyes met the mocking grey ones of the one who was ultimately responsible for this: Aragorn.

With a wild cry he leapt forward into action, sprinting with all his might towards the top box where Aragorn sat, smirking. He made not a move, apparently confident in the multitudes surrounding him.

Legolas leapt easily up six feet on the railing of the first level. People screamed and scattered as he throttled through them, knocking any in his path to the ground with an unforgiving rage.

He was nearly there…guards blocked his path everywhere but it mattered not, for he, the Prince of Mirkwood, was not about to let any fool men stop him and his blind revenge. Screaming wildly he plunged through dozens of men, kicking, punching, slashing. His only weapon was better than their swords, it seemed, for those remaining were now backing away from the crazily slashing elf, looking a little nervous.

"COWARDS!" Legolas screamed at them, adrenaline fueling his madness. He was nearly there, nearly to Aragorn, who, he saw with a furious satisfaction, had wavered in his smile and was starting to look just a little uncomfortable. He could hear guards' feet pounding behind him, knew they would soon hit a dead end and would be caught up with him. It mattered not. Even his life, whether to save or lose, seemed of little consequence, so long as he killed the man responsible for this horrible thing…

"Get him, fools!" Aragorn thundered as Legolas tore through the people. The onlookers had nearly all vanished, terrified by the crazy elf's rampage through the rows.

And then he was there. With a last cry he launched himself on the lap of the man who he had once called friend, now his greatest enemy, and about to become his first murder…

He raised his arm. He could see his own burning eyes glinting madly in the eyes of the other…he brought his knife down, slashing, ready to tear out the pig's throat…

And stumbled, twisted and fell as the butt of a spear collided brutally with the base of his skull. He rolled over onto his back, stunned, his arms falling limply to the side, knife clutched uselessly in his now-lifeless fingers. Soldiers knelt roughly on his wrists, and he felt cold steel across his throat. Through bleary eyes he peered woozily up into the furious face of Aragorn son of Arathorn.

The human was screaming indecipherably at his men. Legolas saw several fall to the ground clutching various body parts. One was missing fingers and several sported long jagged cuts.

"That," said the human, breathing heavily. "Was far too close. The second he took one unauthorized step was too close."

He had Tisdal on his knees, grabbing the shaking man by his hair, tilting his head up and holding a dagger to the jailer's throat.

"Give me one good reason," hissed Aragorn, eyes glinting furiously. "Why I should not end your worthless life this instant. You _failed_ me, scum. And know you what the price for failure is? Hmm? _Know you?_" For though Tisdal had opened his mouth only a choked gurgling noise came from it.

"D-death, milord," he whispered, terrified. He licked his lips. "P-lease, sir, have mercy…"

Aragorn backhanded him coldly. "Silence," he commanded, eyes flinty and unforgiving.

For a moment he considered the pathetic figure in front of hin. After a long moment he threw the sniveling man to the side, kicking him twice soundly in the ribs.

"You have one more chance," the man said silkily. "And I promise you, Tisdal, fail in even the slightest manner and I shall see you wish you had never been born."

"Y-yes, milord," gasped the grateful man, groveling at Aragorn's feet. "And th-thank you, lord, you are so gracious…"

"You disgust me," Aragorn said coldly. "Get up before I change my mind."

The hands holding the stunned elf to the floor tightened, probably involuntarily, as Aragorn drew close to their owners.

Crouching, the despicable human peered into Legolas's white face.

"Too close, my friend," he said softly. "You shall have to be punished."

He said nothing more, but went over to Tisdal, who listened intently, obviously very keen to rise back into his lord's good graces. Legolas let his eyes drift shut and his ears pricked up, listening to their conversation.

"He must be punished," commanded Aragorn softly. "You will do it. Go, fool. What you lack in skill perhaps you can make up now…but do well, scum, lest your further failure end your worthless life."

"Gladly, lord," breathed Tisdal, ugly face alight with glee. A slight shudder ran through his body though he tried to hide it, and the fear and anger that radiated off him could have lit a fire.

Legolas had only caught the last words, for though Aragorn had ensured to keep his voice down, Tisdal knew not the keen ears of elves and had not bothered. A sense of dread settled in his stomach. He had heard only Tisdal's glad assent, and from the look on his face it could not possibly mean anything good for Legolas.

Tisdal bowed low as Aragorn dismissed him, and walked over to where Legolas lay motionless.

"Get him up," he rasped, gesturing. As soon as the men had forced the elf to his feet Tisdal grabbed the elf's hair and roughly jerked his head back, breathing heavily into his face. Legolas, whose eyes were swimming already from the harsh blow received earlier, and was having difficulty standing on his own due also to the blow, could manage no more than a disgusted look at the adan.

"You've caused me more trouble than you're worth," he hissed at the elf. "If it were up to me, I'd kill you without a second thought. You nearly cost me my _life, _elf. Pity, it's not up to me. But even though I can't kill you…Lord Aragorn wants you punished. Come on."

He indicated and the men dragged Legolas into a further corridor, down a winding staircase. He felt a dank breeze sweep through the passage. The air smelled old, very old, and cold, like a cave.

For the first time, he felt a disturbing wave of fear sweep through him. It was swift, but unmistakable. He knew Tisdal was simply furious at him, as he perceived it to be the elf's fault his life had nearly been forfeit, and was thus unlikely to spare the elf any pain. He knew he would pay for his rash rampage across the arena today. Aragorn had been angry, but Tisdal even moreso. Fear fueled Tisdal's wrath, while Aragorn's fury came only from the failure of his guards. He had not been afraid that Legolas's blade would harm him. In fact, now that Legolas had time to ponder upon it he realized that had not he been subdued Aragorn himself surely would have drawn his blade and dashed him to the floor. Skilled as the elf-prince was he was no match for an equally skilled and fully armed swordsman.

They stopped abruptly in front of a thick wooden door, opened by one of Tisdal's thugs. Legolas was shoved inside roughly. What he saw within did not surprise him, yet somehow did not encourage pleasant feelings.

Chains, manacles at their ends, hung upon the walls. Whips and an assortment of other torture devices lay ready to be used upon a low table in the corner. The insides of the cuffs were stained dark red with blood.

Legolas was forced to his knees, thick chains locked around his wrists. Tisdal clamped a rough hand to the back of his neck, forcing him to stay there.

"Leave us," Tisdal ordered shortly, and the men filed obediently out without a word, shutting the thick door behind them. Legolas heard a key scrape in the lock.

Without warning Legolas was suddenly shoved to the ground and a vicious kick planted in his ribs. He instinctively curled into the fetal position, protecting himself. Again and again his jailer threw all his might into his blows.

A rough hand dragged him upright by his hair. His head was yanked back and he saw Tisdal mad's eyes glinting ferociously at him.

"Have you any idea," the human hissed, drawing back a fist. "How much trouble you caused me?" He let the fist fly straight into the elf's prone face. A sickening crack, and something warm and sticky gushed out of his nose. Legolas tasted a disgusting amount of the metallic stuff as Tisdal grabbed his jaw and forced his mouth open, grinning maliciously at the sight of the elf's own blood pouring into his mouth. When he finally released his jaw Legolas had barely time to spit out his own blood before another harsh strike to the face sent his head flopping back, kept in place only by Tisdal's ungentle grip on his hair.

"You—nearly—got—me—killed!" screamed Tisdal, forcing the elf to the floor and now slamming his face into the ground. Legolas could already feel his left eyes swelling hugely; he could barely see out of it as his vision again and again collided with the rough stone floor of the torture cell.

He opened his mouth, not even knowing what he intended to say, but whatever it might have been he had no chance to do it.

"Do not speak!" ordered the human madly. Tipping the elf's head back again he sent a crashing blow across his jaw. Legolas felt resounding pain flaring across his entire lower face and moaned unintentionally. He was certain it had been broken..

"You made me look a fool in front of my men! Whore-child!" swore Tisdal. "Know you how long I worked to get in the lord's good graces? Know you?"

He picked up the elf's entire body and slammed it against the wall again and again. By the time he was finished Legolas could do naught but slide to the floor, slouching helplessly against the wall. His vision was swimming. There seemed to be two of Tisdal's huge, lumbering frame and furious gaze. An arm curled protectively around his ribcage. He was having difficulty breathing; he thought his ribs must be broken.

But the smolderingly angry _adan_ was not finished with him yet. Striding across the room he seized one of the many whips lying there and began mercilessly thrashing the prone elf. Legolas was helpless to move out of the way; his body was alight with piercing, fiery pain. Every breath he took was labored and strained. Even if he could have moved there was nowhere to go. Tisdal had at least been wise in this instance. Had he simply begun beating the elf immediately there would have been a chance of Legolas fighting him. However, he had first used his rage to adequately subdue the elf, so he was in no shape to fight back. Legolas hated the feeling of such utter helplessness.

Tisdal beat his prisoner until Legolas could do naught but lie shuddering against the wall, straining to keep consciousness as the pain drove his senses wild. By the end Legolas lay trembling, his blood streaming across the floor, utterly drained.

What seemed an eternity later, the raining blows ceased and Tisdal, his rage apparently cooling, threw down his whip. He dragged the elf into a corner and chained his still-bound hands there.

Giving him one last kick to the head for good measure, he threw a dark look behind him at the bloody, still elf as he exited.

"Remember this when you are tempted to anger me again, elf," he hissed venomously, before slamming the door behind him and locking it firmly.

Legolas tried to keep his eyes open and found it impossible; they were both swollen quite shut. His consciousness lasted him perhaps two minutes; his last thought was of pain before he knew no more.

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King Thranduil did not like Blood Gulch. Aragorn could sense the intense dislike radiating off the elvenking as they strode cautiously into the dirty little town. He thought he knew why: King Thranduil, like most elves, was used to finery and neatness. He was accustomed to elegance and to everything being precise and, well, for lack of a better word, _perfect._ Elves had an annoying tendency to like everything to be perfect, and and even more annoying tendency to accomplish this perfection. Blood Gulch was low even by human standards, and the highest of human standards, Aragorn had found, were often little match for even moderate elven standards.

Thranduil had his hood down, contrary to Aragorn's wishes, stubbornly refusing to hide what he truly was. Aragorn mentally sighed, casting a sidelong glance at his companion, whose appearance was a thousand times more appealing than that of any man present at their current location. Blood Gulch also happened to be known for its…different types of men…those not necessarily interested in women. A fact which Aragorn had not felt a particular need to share with Thranduil. Elven moral standards were extremely high, and it was likely that Thranduil would have flat-out refused to enter the town at all had he known this little detail. Aragorn knew it was only a matter of time before Thranduil discovered Blood Gulch's…different…portion of the population—he was surprised that Thranduil had not mentioned the muttering and pointing going on as they walked the street—and thus was not remotely surprised at the awkward turn the conversation took when the pair headed to the inn for their supplies.

"Room for two?" the grinning idiot behind the desk inquired.

Aragorn shook his head. "Nay. We are in need of supplies; we'll not be staying the night."

"But you must!" insisted the man. "Can't eat if you don't sleep, can ye? No bed, no bread? Sleep fine, drink wine?"

This did not make the remotest bit of sense to Aragorn. In fact, this was one of the most ridiculous loads of nonsense he had heard in a while. He wondered if perhaps the man was drunk. The notion was not entirely unexpected.

"I think we will be able to eat quite well without sleeping," he said carefully, eyeing the man, who had just started to slide off his stool before pulling himself upright and grinning more widely than ever.

"Nope, nope, nope. Don't get no vittles unless you stay with us a little! Get soup, whoop de whoop!" He roared with laughter, apparently at his own humor, himself being the only party to find this amusing in the least.

"I—er—" Aragorn was taken aback. He had not encountered this before. "We may have no supplies unless we stay the night?" he inquired cautiously.

"Right-o, cherry-ho!" screamed the drunkard, peering happily at them. Aragorn avoided looking at Thranduil, but could only imagine the look of disgust on his royal elven face.

"Er," he said smartly again. "Well, then, we shall take a room…"

He ignored Thranduil's pointed glare and gestured for the man to show them the way.

"Right you are, yes sirree!" cackled the poor fool. He drew out a ring of keys.

"Follow me then, lads, there's ye goes," he said happily. They followed him down a narrow, dirty hallway until he stopped and opened one of the doors. Two tiny cots lay within. A rickety-looking chair beside an old wooden table upon which a sad little candle stood lit were the only other contents of the room.

"I'll call up some o' our best girls for ye, then, yes?" he beamed happily at them, pausing midstride to wait for their assent.

"That'll, er, not be necessary," Aragorn said quickly.

The man's eyes widened and Aragorn braced himself for what was likely to come next…

"Ma 'pologies, sirs! Didn't know ye swung _that way_, if ye knows what I means…I'll just show you to…"

And he seized Aragorn's forearm and dragged him quite cheerily to a different room. This one contained only one bed. Aragorn could not help but look at Thranduil this time and was entirely unsurprised at the spectacularly horrified look on his pretty, stuck-up face as the innkeeper's meaning sank in.

"No!" the king was shaking his head frantically. "No, we do not, er…_swing that way_…we would quite like the other room, er, _sir_…"

It was plain that Thranduil was having difficulty referring to this specimen as 'sir'.

But the innkeeper wouldn't have it. Drunk as he was he was quite convinced that the two did indeed _swing that way_, despite Thranduil's numerous useless assertions that he was married, quite happily so, and to a female, and Aragorn's insistence that the other room was quite suitable, he apparently did not care and it was with a cheery "have a guuuuud night, sirrahs!" that he waved dismissively at them as he disappeared back into the pub.

Frankly, Aragorn would have found it entirely amusing had he not been faced with the task of settling the irate and red-faced King of Mirkwood down. Not to mention having just been mistaken for…someone who _swung that way._ It didn't matter much to him, people would think what they would, but Thranduil was an entirely different matter.

"You must go back, Aragorn," the king insisted furiously. "Make it known to him we would prefer different sleeping arrangements!"

"Sorry, milord," Aragorn said, drawing the king in and swiftly shutting the door behind them. "It has been done. It's for but one night. Before light breaks the sky we can rise and seek supplies. I am quite certain that our friend shall be far too hung over to resist selling us as much food as we desire."

"Why," Thranduil growled. "Did you even agree to staying here? Áirúlas and Belthan shall be supposing our demise and—"

"My lord," Aragorn said calmly. "They are warriors and I do believe they know that sometimes situations arise. I am sure they will be faring well."

He started towards the single bed, took his bedding out of his pack and laid it at the foot of the bed.

"I shall sleep on the floor," he announced, thus cutting off any other argument Thranduil may have been cooking up. He glanced pointedly up at the king, who looked moody. "I will arise before the sun, my lord, and gather our supplies. If it is favorable to you I can then wake you and we can on our way."

"I am quite able to awake with you," said Thranduil crossly. "And you said that they would only sell us enough for the party number?"

"The man is far too drunk to remember anything like that," Aragorn said. "Tomorrow he'll be even worse."

At last Thranduil grudgingly lay upon the mattress, but not before he gingerly spread his own elven blanket upon it. Aragorn wished dearly for a portrait of the scene: the King of Mirkwood lying rigidly upon a hard human bed frame, proud face upturned, as if he felt showing comfort would be a sign that he was actually getting a good rest and thus that this human establishment might actually serve some purpose.

"Good night, Your Highness," Aragorn said softly into the darkness, after he had extinguished their candle.

There was a pause. Then, "Good night, Aragorn."

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The man shadowed by mist and unseen by the glazed eyes of the drunkards was possibly one of the only sober men in the town. And so it had to remain, at least for now. Perhaps, when this was all over, he could enjoy the uncouth luxury of clouded judgement, wild glee, happiness at absolutely nothing. But at the moment there was still a long road ahead of him, much work to be done, revenge to be had, lives...one life in particular...to be ruined.

A ranger to destroy.

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_lín adar…ar adan--_the man...the human...

_Istan...Istan le gwarth--_I know...I know the betrayer.

_Thranduilion-al! Adan...--_Son of Thranduil! The human...

_Heb-ten…istan thurin…adan…ho u-man thia…--_He is not…he is not what he seems… secret I know…he is not…

_Istan--_I know

_Namaarie--_Farewell

_Sidh, mellon nin, gwador nin--_Peace, my friend, my brother

**Note: There is no particular significance to the two being forced to share a room, in case you're wondering. I added that into the mix because I wanted to show how drunk the innkeeper was, and what a nasty town it was. A fully incapable manager, automatically assuming they wanted to sleep with prostitutes, etc.**

**Please review…**

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	7. Foreboding and Regrets

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**Many thanks to my anonymous reviewers: hansbmd, Aruvaile, anonymous and NebraskaFan!**

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**-Chapter 7-**

He would rather have been unconscious, Legolas decided groggily as his awareness gradually returned.

He lifted his head slighty and immediately regretted it as a throbbing headache ensued, like a troll repeatedly clubbing his head against a very hard wall.

He tried to lick his lips, unsuccessfully. The action sent the crusted blood flaking onto his body, where it blended easily with the dried blood now covering much of his body. After a few more tries, he eventually managed to get his lips at least a little wet, though he now could taste metallic blood in his mouth.

A door creaked somewhere, and he tensed immediately, glancing up. He was afraid that Tisdal would return, more than he was prone to admit, and he was deeply ashamed of it. The action made his head spin and he groaned without thinking.

It was not his door opening, however, and he dropped his head back onto his chest, exhaling quietly, relieved.

He regulated his breathing carefully…in, hold, out…in, hold, out…It seemed less painful to hold the breath in for a few seconds before exhaling again. He held himself straight up as best he could as he exhaled, as it stressed his bruised or broken ribs less.

He blinked a few times and found that even this hurt. Blood stuck even to his eyelashes. He blinked more rapidly, trying to get his eyes to tear up and hopefully wash away some of the red crust. The swelling, at least, seemed to be going down a little. At least he could see something now.

In, hold, out. The pain was increasing. He straightened as much as he could and focused on breathing, trying to block out the pain.

In, out.

A thousand images were filtering through his mind.

The changed Aragorn, coming towards him with a smile.

The hand on his hair clenching suddenly, forcefully pushing him to the ground.

The reflection of his own terrified face in the eyes of the other, only just beginning to comprehend his friend's betrayal, too late.

In, out.

He could not have fathomed the pain of betrayal before this. He could not have known the crushing weight of knowing his demise was at the hands of one he called _mellon_, friend.

Ai! Would that it were not so!

Legolas's heart beat a sorrowful tune, mourning for all the Dunedán could have been.

He knew the young Ranger was truly Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir. He was well-versed and well-educated. He was painfully aware that this man should some day have been the King of Gondor. His heart clenched at the thought of this warped human ever ruling over others. A chill washed over him as he realized that the traitor's fate was unchanged, that he was still destined to become the sovreign of Gondor and Arnor. It was a long time in coming, but even the thought frightened the elf. If he were capable of this much evil now, how much more could he do with armies of thousands at his command?

Sometimes, fleetingly, doubt would rise within him that it actually was true Ranger hurting him. Surely, Hope's tiny voice cried, surely it could not be Aragorn? But then the great snake of certainty rose within him and crushed Hope overwhelmingly. Images of Aragorn rose unbidden in his mind, and once again he was forced to accept the devastating truth: his friend was gone.

_I shall be slain here,_ he thought numbly. _Aragorn's intention are not that I shall live._

And Legolas feared death. He was an elf, immortal, fair and unchanging. Elves were never intended to die. Legolas had never really entertained the possibility. Certainly, he had been close to death more times than he could count, but each time he had been certain he would survive. This time, though…this time he would die. Held captive at the hands of the one who knew him best, who knew elves, who knew his _weaknesses_…held fast with chains and burdened by a heavy heart, Legolas did not doubt he would never leave this place.

He could not fathom death. Death was to elves as flying was to humans. It simply did not happen, except by great chance of accident. He wondered briefly if it would hurt.

In, out.

More than he feared Death though he longed for the chance to tell his father all that had transpired. Every day, as Legolas saw it, Thranduil was being drawn closer and closer to danger. With each rise and fall of the sun Aragorn drew closer to succeeding.

More than for himself Legolas feared for his father. He had seen what into what darkness Thranduil had plunged after the horrific death of his wife, Legolas's mother. It had nearly destroyed him. Legolas was deathly afraid of what might happen if Thranduil lost his only son, too, just after the wounds left by Silana's death were beginning to heal. He shivered. In his darkest of thoughts, he knew what would happen. Thranduil would be driven mad with grief, fleeing to the Havens or perhaps just wandering aimlessly until hunger or wild beasts took his life. Without her king or prince Mirkwood would be weak, susceptible to any evil which might creep upon her.

In, out.

The pain was dizzying, but was nothing compared to the emotional battle ravaging his heart.

A low sob broke from his throat.

Mirkwood would be destroyed from the inside out, and he was completely helpless to to save her.

-

**I KNOW this is stupidly short...but it just won't come. I wrote and rewrote it so many times and finally decided to just post it. It's so frustrating! I know what I want to happen, I just can't...make it. It's not writer's block, exactly, but perhaps a distant cousin...anyway...**

**I was left a review by 'tttttt' that said something I assume is very rude…I had never heard of the word 'wang'. Is it foreign slang? Anyway, whoever 'tttttt' is acted completely irrational and provided no reasons for his/her opinion. I therefore have no choice but to completely disregard it…(shakes head)…if you don't like it, fine. But you might as well tell me why. Anyway…does anyone else have thoughts on this?? I am going to remove the review after Chapter 8 is posted.**

**Everyone else, PLEASE review, even if it's short. Chapter 8 is already begun and will be MUCH longer, I promise. What I have written is already twice as long as this chapter, and I'm not nearly finished with it. (puppy eyes) I am actually begging for reviews here...**

**-TRS-**

**-**


	8. Ominous

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**Eep! Chapter 8! Woo hoo! Please read and review…you know the drill. :-) **

**Three of my OCs in this chapter have a common factor…see if you can figure it out…it's kinda tricky. ) Extra Valentine's Day candy for those who can figure it out… **

**------ **

Morning dawned without excitement. Aragorn and Thranduil arose before dawn and, as expected, were able to 'barter' with the fully hung-over innkeeper for more supplies than their party was technically allotted. Thranduil seemed to get some satisfaction from 'agreeably forcing' the man to do so—not that he was really putting up much of an argument. Aragorn personally witnessed him trying to give their money to an inanimate statue, thinking it was his assistant.

They were heading back to the edge of town towards the woods when a wild, piercing scream shattered the still air like the swinging of a sword in a room full of glass.

Aragorn half-turned and froze, listening intently. Thranduil's eyes narrowed and he rested a hand on the long dagger at his belt. Both barely breathed, listening.

A moment later a second yell split the air. This time, however, it contained words.

"Help! Please, oh please, my mother…"

A young boy of perhaps fourteen had appeared at the top of the hill, at the foot of which Aragorn and Thranduil currently stood frozen. He was looking around wildly, tears streaming down his face. His stance was urgent and panicked as he pounded down the hill to where the two strangers stood.

"You've gotta help me," he panted, gazing imploringly into their wary faces. "P-please, sirs, there's nobody else around, no one else who'll help…"

Aragorn had not relaxed his guard but replied cautiously, "What ails you, young sir? For what reason is our help required?"

The boy's eyes widened dramatically. "It's my m-mother, sir," he choked pitifully. "S-she's about t-to have her baby, you see, an' my father's off to work, he don't get home 'til it's way past dark…I'ma 'fraid she won't make it…"

He trailed off, sobbing renewed afresh.

Thranduil and Aragorn exchanged incredulous looks. Surely this lad could not expect them to help deliver a child? For Valar's sakes, they were warriors, not nurses!

"Child," said Thranduil bravely, in an attempt to be diplomatic. "Is there no midwife around? Surely a female would be far better equipped than we to help your mother."

"N-no, sir, beggin' pardon, there's no one," the boy cried. "Look around, sir, d'you see anyone? An' do this seem like a good proper town where's you'd find a birther at?

"No, I suppose not," the king admitted. He looked helplessly at Aragorn, who looked equally unsure.

"Please," the lad pleaded. "You're the only ones awake, everyone else's drunk as death…"

"I suppose we must try," Aragorn said in a low voice. "If the boy's story is true, I cannot in good conscience leave his mother to her pains…though my experience birthing children is…minimal. What say you, my lord?"

He looked at the king in askance. Thranduil looked almost amused.

"I have not seen the birth of a child since Legolas," he said, sounding almost regretful. "And Aragorn, you must understand, that was well over a thousand years ago."

Aragorn sighed. This was ridiculous. A moaning sound came from beside him, and he looked down to find the boy clutching his arms, rocking back and forth and moaning.

Thranduil, again displaying a knack for irritating elven standard, this one apparently of chivalry, muttered something about how the father ought not to leave home if his wife was that pregnant. Aragorn sighed again. "Show us the way, lad."

The boy's face brightened instantly. He gestured anxiously at them. With an energy he looked too frail to possess, he darted up the hill, frantically waving an arm.

The elf king and Ranger were quick to follow. The boy began to run, and the duo were forced to follow suit to keep up.

The lad certainly knew his way around. Darting around prominent boulders, taking indecipherably significant turns, they followed at an exhausting pace for perhaps twenty minutes before the child stopped abruptly in front of the crudest-looking house Aragorn had ever seen. It was no more than a shack made of rough branches and sticks, held together by young saplings and mud. The pair of them probably could have constructed it in a day. A dull glow emitted from the inside, and a woman's groans were clearly heard.

"Parri? Parri, is that you?" her weak voice came faintly.

"Yes, momma, it's me," the boy said anxiously, dashing inside and indicating frantically that they should follow. "I brought help, momma…"

Thranduil and Aragorn followed cautiously inside. The boy had been telling the truth—a woman lay inside on a small cot and was heavily with child. Her swollen belly protruded from the covers on the thin cot. She gave an audible gasp at the sight of the men.

"Parri, what is this?" she demanded in a whisper, while Thranduil and Aragorn pretended not to be able to hear.

The boy shifted uncomfortably. "They were the first I saw, momma, everyone else was drunk…and they came willingly…"

The women's eyes fell upon Thranduil and widened.

"And surely…" she whispered, stretching a finger weakly in the king's direction. "Surely you are no man…?"

"I am an elf," Thranduil replied evenly, guardedly. The woman actually smiled.

"I have heard of the wonders of elves—"

She didn't have a chance to say anything else. Her face suddenly contracted and she gave a sudden scream.

"The b-baby," she whispered, her face drawn and white. "It's c-coming…oh stars…it's coming…"

Parri lurched to her side, stroking her hand and whispering comfortingly to her.

Aragorn knelt at the foot of the bed. He had done this a few times, but only when the need was dire…although he thought that the current circumstances probably qualified as that just now. Usually, however, he had not been alone. Typically it had been helping his father Elrond, or a professional midwife, in a hospital or other place where babies were supposed to be born, not in a dirty shack in the middle of the woods…

Thranduil glided to the side of the bed and knelt gracefully at her side. Aragorn glanced questioningly at him.

"Elves are oft of comfort to many a creature," the king answered his gaze quietly. "I believe I can be of some assistance in this matter."

Aragorn nodded silently and turned his attention back to the woman. Beads of sweat poured down her forehead, and her face was scrunched up tightly in pain and concentration. Her son Parri clutched her right hand, gazing fearfully at her.

"Do not fear, child," Thranduil's voice was soft, and Parri jumped slightly. "Birthing is not an uncommon experience and I daresay your mother seems strong enough to pull through quite well."

Parri nodded, still looking uncertain, though his shoulders relaxed slightly and his breathing became more even.

With the boy at ease Thranduil now turned his attention to the lady on the bed.

"What is your name?" he inquired softly.

"P-Praha, they call me," she whispered, with an effort.

"Praha," said Thranduil easily. "A lovely name. Tell me of your son, Praha." He glanced kindly at Parri, giving him a slight smile of encouragement. "He seems a fine lad."

"Oh, he is," she breathed, beaming weakly at her child. "H-he is ever so helpful with the work, never complains about his chores, always does what the ma—I mean, always does as my husband says…"

Thranduil's sharp ears had caught the slight deviation. He felt certain she had not been about to say 'husband'. He stored it in his mind but did not dwell on it now, for pointing this out during her childbirth was unlikely to ease her pain.

"It seems you and your husband have raised him to become a fine man," Thranduil said. "It takes fine parents indeed to raise a child to be as lovingly obedient as your son appears to be."

"Th-thank you, Master Elf," she murmured. Thranduil noticed a slight flush in her cheeks though they were already stained red with effort.

"Tell me of your husband," he said, watching her face carefully as he remembered how she had stumbled over her words earlier.

"He—" she hesitated before continuing. "Berlon was…is…Berlon is a wonderful man," she finished hastily. She glanced at Thranduil, who had schooled his face to appear that he had not noticed her slight of words. "Apologies, sir," she breathed. "I don't usually get my words mixed up like this…the baby…"

"I understand," Thranduil replied graciously, though a nagging feeling at the back of his mind was prodding him.

"Berlon," she continued before halting abruptly and groaning. Her back arched and she clutched the hands of her son and of the elvenking for support.

"It…hurts…" she ground out, tears squeezing out from between tightly clenched lids.

_"Avo 'osto_," Thranduil murmured soothingly, stroking her hand gently, and Aragorn was startled to see her relax almost immediately and begin breathing less heavily. He supposed he should not have been surprised, having lived with elves for nearly his entire life, but he had never seen the calming effect elves had on women giving birth.

"Do not fear," Thranduil repeated, this time in Common. She opened her eyes and smiled weakly at him.

"It is good for you to be here," she whispered.

There was no more time to say much else, for at that moment she cried out again and Aragorn began rapidly muttering to himself under his breath as he peered where the baby ought to be appearing.

Thranduil merely continued to stroke her hand and murmur soft words of Sindarin to her, as it seemed to soothe her. He knew that Aragorn, having lived under Elrond's roof for so long and being a Dunedán, would be better at this and that the king himself was helping more by acting as comforter.

"I see it," Aragorn said in fluid Sindarin. His frame suddenly stiffened.

"What is wrong?" Thranduil questioned swiftly, careful to keep his voice low so as not to alarm Praha.

"I can see the feet, but not the head," Aragorn replied tersely.

"Forgive me, but I am not accustomed to the ways of human birthing," Thranduil said. "Pray tell what this means."

"The head must come out first," Aragorn murmured in explanation. "If it does not the child could suffocate within the mother's womb."

Thranduil nodded grimly, understanding.

"What are you going to do?" he inquired softly.

"I must try to get the child out very quickly," Aragorn said. He extended a hand and grasped the tiny feet firmly.

Praha meanwhile was gasping and sweating. She could hear the Ranger and king talking, even if she did not know what they were saying, and could tell something was amiss.

"What is wrong?" she gasped, groaning as another wave of pain overtook her. Her son looked wide-eyed from Thranduil to Aragorn, to his mother. He looked even more frightened than she did.

Aragorn did not lie to her. "There is a complication," he told her gently but truthfully. "I am afraid the child's feet are the only part visible."

At his words the woman began to sob in earnest. "N-no," she cried. "This cannot b-be…that ch-child is m-my only h-hope…if it d-dies…Parri will be taken from m-me…"

Aragorn and Thranduil exchanged startled glances.

"Let us assume for now that these words are emotional ones of a pain-ridden mother," Aragor murmured. "Perhaps later we may converse about it…"

Thranduil nodded, and reverted to soft elvish words to Praha. This time they only calmed her down a bit. Tears still poured down her pale yet flushed face.

Aragorn took a deep breath. He knew if he did not act, the baby would die. He grasped the feet with one hand, and used the other to try to create a larger opening, using his fingers to extend the opening. Gently but surely he pulled the tiny infant out, with Praha pushing as hard as she could, gasping for breath as she did.

"Nearly there," he muttered to himself, straining to guide the baby into the world as he delved a hand into the woman's body to create more room.

A set of knees appeared, followed by impossibly thin white thighs… a torso.…sickly shoulders…and finally, the head, followed by arms, which had been thrust up while the rest of the body slid out. Aragorn stiffened as the child slid into his arms; its tiny face was blue and it wasn't breathing. Mucus covered its mouth, and the umbilical cord was wrapped around its neck. Aragorn thrust a finger into the tiny mouth and scooped out the mucus blocking the airway, but it wasn't enough.

"Thranduil," Aragorn hissed, dispensing with formalities. "I need a sterilized knife, _now._"

Thranduil glanced over and pursed his lips, seeing the still form of the child.

Subtly so as not to alarm the exhausted Praha, who had slumped back against the bed and was now sobbing quietly, he slipped a slender blade to Aragorn, nodding once to assure the cleanliness of the knife.

Aragorn took it with a silent nod of thanks. He severed the cord with one deft cut, and tied it off neatly.

Gently he pressed two fingers over the unmoving infant's chest and pumped twice, then paused. He leaned down and blew a firm yet still gentle burst of air into the child's lungs. He followed by pumping the chest again, and breathing into its mouth once more. He followed the procedure three more times with no success. With a sinking heart he realized he was going to have to tell Praha that her child was stillborn.

He was determined to try once more, however. Pressing the full heel of his hand on the sternum he thrust down with more force than normally used on an infant, and breathed forcefully into the lungs. Three times he did this and a moment later was rewarded by a tiny cough. There was a split second pause, before an piercing wail split the tense air. Parri, who had only been looking at his mother, now gave a giant whoop of joy and fled to the foot of the bed to examine his new sibling. Praha was sobbing harder than ever, but from happiness, and both Thranduil and Aragorn's faces were split into grins of relief.

"_Na vedui_!" Thranduil exclaimed. "_Mae carnen, Dunedán, mae carnen!" _

"_Le hannon," _Aragorn murmured back. He took the tiny infant to a washbasin in the corner of the house and bathed its tiny body before taking a length of cloth from Parri and wrapping it soundly.

"Praha," he said softly, approaching the bed. He knelt at her side and placed the child in her arms. "Congratulations. You have a new, beautiful little girl."

-

A few hours later, Aragorn and Thranduil exited the small shack. They had left Praha, young Parri and the girl with more provisions and some money, as they seemed somewhat lacking. They had not wanted to go, but Praha had been extremely persistent, insisting that her husband was coming home soon and would not want to find two strangers in his home, no matter how helpful they had been. He could be unreasonable at times, she had explained, looking faintly embarrassed. When Thranduil and Aragorn had offered to stay until her husband arrived home later that evening, she had become almost violent in her insistence that they leave.

She had thanked them profusely, and become ashamed when she could offer them nothing in return, though naturally the two refused any offers she tried to make.

Her husband would be back any minute, she had explained, as it was nearly dark, and cheerfully waved to them from bed as the little girl cooed happily in her arms. Parri had seen them to the edge of the woods, thanking them, too.

"Little Sîdh Meren is quite the screamer," Aragorn commented with a wry grin.

Thranduil nodded serenly in agreement. "Interesting, is it not?"

"Precisely what?" Aragorn asked, slightly confused.

Thranduil inclined his head slightly. "The child's name. She desired an Elvish name."

Aragorn nodded, understanding. "Peace and Joy," he murmured, thinking of the meaning of the two elvish words which Praha had chosen for her infant's name.

Thranduil chuckled. "Peace…I think not! Not with all those screams emitting from that six-hour-old throat!"

Aragorn shifted his pack to his other shoulder and permitted himself to smile again. "I believe she was making up for lost time!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps she was letting the world know how much she disliked being stuck half in the womb and half out!"

They made their way back to Blood Gulch and carefully threaded through it, as it was the most direct way back to where they had left Áirúlas and Belthan, Thranduil's warriors.

"We wondered, Lord," Áirúlas admitted seriously after they had met up again. "Yet we remained, as instructed."

"Thank you," Thranduil replied graciously, smiling slightly. He knew his warriors and knew they would obey any instruction given by him, to the death.

"If I may ask," Belthan spoke up from Thranduil's right as they prepared to set off again. "What kept you, my lord? We expected you back some time ago."

"Extenuating circumstances," Thranduil replied evenly. "I assure you, my friend, that we were in no danger."

Both warriors relaxed slightly, for that was what they had been wanting to hear. What they king did was his business alone, but where the king's safety was concerned, that was entirely another matter. If one good thing could be said of the Mirkwood elves it would be that her warriors were loyal to her king to death.

A cry from Aragorn made the elves whirl around.

"What ails you, Ranger?" Thranduil demanded. His eyes narrowed and a hand drifted absently towards his waist, where his elven blades were kept.

Aragorn held up a small pouch and Thranduil's eyes widened. He recognized it as the one they had left Praha containing money and other provisions.

"How did that reutrn to our care?" Thranduil wondered. Aragorn shook his head.

"I know not," he said. He hesitated. "I find it very strange," he admitted. "Did you perchance hear some of what she said during the birth? It did not make sense."

Thranduil nodded slowly, considering. "She used 'was' instead of 'is' when she referred to her husband," he recalled. "And began to say 'the', followed by a word beginning with the letter 'm' after it, before she quickly corrected herself."

"Could her husband be dead?" Aragorn mused, his eyes narrowed as he thought.

"Perhaps she referred to 'the master'," Thranduil speculated quietly. "I can conclude nothing further…"

"But," Aragorn continued. "Why would she lie to us? We have emerged unscathed and the situation seems perfectly innocent. A boy comes running to us to tell us his mother is about to bear child, and we come and see that his tale is one of truth. We assist, and leave." He frowned.

"We should return," Thranduil said. It didn't add up. Something here was wrong.

Aragorn nodded. He hoisted his pack onto his back.

Thranduil motioned to his warriors, who had stood silently by.

"I assume you now realize our goings-on during our absense," he told them shortly by way of explanation. "Something does not feel right when it should. The truth must be sought, and swiftly."

Each elf nodded unblinkingly. They were ready to follow their lord to wherever he lead them.

-

The jaunt ldead them once again through Blood Gulch and to the edge of the wood. Aragorn, being a superb tracker and the best in the group, was easily able to retrace their steps. He lead them through the woods, around the various boulders and other markers which his Ranger's mind had stored. Invisible to any but a very skilled tracker, it was by these details Aragorn was able to lead the party swiftly to the very spot where only hours earlier they had helped Praha deliver young Sîdh Meren.

Aragorn stopped short. The slightest sharp intake of breath from Thranduil confirmed that his eyes did not deceive him.

The cabin was gone. Utterly and completely _gone. _

Where the rude shack had formerly stood there was now only a pile of lumber with the thinnest tendril of smoke curling lazily from it.

Praha and Parri were nowhere to be seen.

The thin, piercing wail of a newborn infant shattered the ominous air.

-

**A/N-I have never given birth and am not very familiar with the process! I understand I may have messed things up, but I did some research and did the best I could. So, I ask you to keep this in mind if you desire to point out a medial error of mine in reviewing. Thank you!**

**-**

**Sidh Meren: Peace Joy**

**_Avo 'osto_-- Fear not**

**_Na vedui_!--At last!**

**_Mae carnen_!--Well done!**

**_Le hannon_--Thank you.**

**-**

**Please, please review!!**

**-**


	9. The Trap is Set

**-**

**Chapter 9**

**-**

The thin, piercing wail of a newborn infant shattered the ominous air.

Aragorn's hands flew immediately to his sword, while three sets of elvish hands drew bows and nocked arrows more swiftly than the eye could see.

Áirúlas and Belthan flanked Thranduil on either side while Aragorn tensely scanned the area. His sharp grey eyes could make out the general area from which the babe's cry hailed. He started forward cautiously, on edge and fully aware that something here was very wrong.

The three elves rotated in a slow circle, their hawk-eyes piercing the grim scene and its surroundings. They were deadly warriors, every inch of them was tense and ready to spring into action at half a second's notice.

"Praha?" Aragorn called, his tone low. He did not expect to find her; he knew no mother in her right mind would ever abandon her own babe. He moved very carefully towards where the child's screams seemed to be coming from. Reaching a clump of particularly dense bushes, he stopped, listening. There was only muffled whimpering now, and it seemed to be coming from directly in front of him...

He bent slowly, reaching a hand forward, when a sharp bark from Thranduil made him stop still.

"Aragorn!" the elvenking snapped harshly. The proud blue eyes were narrowed to slits.

"What is it?" Aragorn breathed, straightening and backing off quickly.

"Someone is close." Thranduil's answer was terse and flat. "Do not near the cries...they may be a trap. Attention to our pursuers is now imperative."

"Are you able to sense where?" Aragorn asked, straining his own senses. He thought he might sense something a distance away...but it was very far away...even with his keen Ranger sense, he could not be certain...

He pointed silently, questioning, and looked at Thranduil for confirmation that it was another intelligent being he sensed. The king nodded once.

"I am going to seek them out," Aragorn breathed nearly silently; none but an elf could have heard his low Sindarin words.

"We stay," Thranduil replied in a tone only a little louder. Indeed none but an elf or a Dunedan as skilled as Aragorn could have made out his words.

Aragorn nodded and, in attribution to his elvish bringing-up, leapt nearly silently into the closest low-hanging tree branch. Whoever was nearing them was not likely to expect a human to advance from the trees...

He made his way swiftly yet quietly through the thick branches.

Twenty yards...thirty...forty...after sixty yards he dropped lower to spy upon whoever might be advancing upon them...

There was nobody there. He couldn't even sense anyone in the vicinity. Puzzled, he dropped to the ground and began cautiously scouting the surrounding woods.

And then suddenly, seemingly from out of nowhere, a large and heavy body slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Quicker than any human should be able to Aragorn leapt to his feet, but it was not quick enough. The man was muscular, and wore a mask. His attacker slammed into him again and Aragorn's breath sharpened suddenly as he felt the sting of a blade sweep across his arm and down. He sensed the other human rushing towards him again but this time he was ready. Sidestepping deftly he parried and thrust. The other man was quick. He dodged and leapt around Aragorn so the Ranger was forced to spin to meet him. Easily he blocked the blow crashing towards his head, and forced his way forward.

But something did not feel right here. Something about the man's approach was setting off alarm bells in his head.

This fighter was too easily forced back. The skill with which he had sneaked up on Aragorn spoke for him; no one whose stalking skills were so great could be so poor a fighter.

One step, one fatal step was all it took as he realized his error seconds too late. As he raised his blade to bring down the enemy his opponent ducked suddenly as a second man burst from the foliage and full-force tackled the Ranger onto the ground. Aragorn, in the act of stepping forward, was caught off-balance and with a cry, tumbled to the side, sword flying out of his hand as the bulky weight of the second man pinned him to the ground. Silently cursing his inattentiveness, he wrestled with the other man, trying to get a hand to the knife in his boot when cold steel at his throat made him freeze mid-struggle.

Rough hands of the first attacker flipped him forcefully onto his stomach and wrenched his hands together. Coarse twine was wrapped viciously around his wrists, and a boot on the back of his head forced his face into the muddy ground.

"Stay real still if you want to live," breathed the second man into his ear. Aragorn refused to answer. His mind was whirling, and he could not help cursing his foolishness.

A distant elvish war cry caught his attention and he stiffened.

A diversion.

That was all it had been. Whoever had destroyed the cabin and left the little infant alone drew him away as a diversion. Aragorn felt sickened. He knew Thranduil and his warriors were more than capable of defending themselves, but if they faced warriors as skilled as the ones which had captured Aragorn...

"Listen to your friends cry," hissed his captor malevolently. "Stupid elves...they'll never know..."

What they would never know, Aragorn was unsure, but he merely remained silent, staring resolutely into the ground. He would not play their games.

"Time for a little sleepy time for this one," grunted the first. Aragorn stiffened as he felt a wet rag stuffed against his nose and mouth. He refused to breathe, but his captors only laughed.

"No use resisting," said one. "Eventually you'll have to breathe, won't you, lad?"

He was right. Aragorn was capable of holding his breath for minutes, but it didn't matter. His captors were not moving that rag, and finally he could no longer hold it in.

One breath of it made him dizzy, a second made his world go fuzzy and a third sent his mind careening into distant blackness.

He never saw the second captor pull of his mask, because if he had...he might have wondered at the mirror image of himself reflected in the evil face of the other.

-

They were outnumbered seven to one, and the warriors were skilled. Thranduil realized that with every passing moment their odds of winning this skirmish were becoming less and less.

Áirúlas sported a long, jagged cut across the thigh, while a thin cut across Belthan's forehead bled so profusely Thranduil marveled that his warrior could keep the blood out of his eyes and continue to fight. The king himself was unharmed, at the moment. His warriors were good ones, and brave. Both their injuries had been obtained ensuring that their liege came to no harm.

There were really only two ways to kill an elf. One was to overwhelm them by sheer force of number; the other, by means of trickery. It seemed that both had been applied here: they were obviously meant to be lured into this place so they might be attacked, and when said attack had come it had been strong and unyielding. Whoever had ordered it knew what they were doing when it came to elves, a grim realization.

The three elves were easily better fighters than the men; however, the humans were sturdy and had been well-trained. Their advantage was in their numbers. Thranduil and his warriors could fight for hours without tiring; however, it would be more than hours before these humans were all defeated. Their attackers did not give at all, but pressed the three elves into a tight ring in the center.

Thranduil glanced at his two guards. He could see the fierce resolve in their eyes as they fought, the steely glare that told him all he needed to know: they would die before they saw Thranduil hurt.

But he could also see them weakening. Six men they had already killed, and four more had been greviously wounded, but eleven more still remained, at full strength and unhurt.

Belthan cried out suddenly to Thranduil's right. The elvenking looked at him sharply, and winced as he observed the black-feathered end of a cruel arrow protruding rudely from the warrior's shoulder. His gaze flew past the warrior and fell upon a masked archer who had just appeared, unnoticed. He raised his bow again. Thranduil could almost feel the malice rolling off him.

He uttered a warning to Áirúlas but it was too late. A sharp whistle signified a second arrow sailing through the air, embedding itself into the warrior's stomach. The elf's eyes widened with shock, and he fell to his knees, dropping his weapon. Immediately two of the men rushed forward and roughly seized the fallen warrior's arms, dragging him out of the skirmish and forcing him to the ground.

Belthan meanwhile was fighting valiantly for his wound, but his face had gone unnaturally pale and blood was pouring out of the injury, soaking his tunic crimson. Thranduil knew they were fighting a losing battle. Belthan managed to take out another man with a swift yet faltering blow across the throat but a second later stumbled and crashed to the ground. A second arrow now jutted from his wrist. Thranduil gritted his teeth. Whoever was attacking them wanted them alive, for an arrow to the wrist was not deadly but would indeed stop the victim from further drawing a bow or sword for a long while.

Thranduil was alone. Gripping his sword—they had been come upon far too quickly for bows to be much use—he readied himself for battle when a sneering shout came from across the glade. The masked archer had spoken.

"Put it down, Master Elf, or your friends here shall perish without hesitation," the archer ordered. When Thranduil tensed and did not reply the man drew a long, gleaming blade from a sheath at his side. He strode over to where Áirúlas lay, panting, and grabbed a handful of the long blonde hair. Jerking the warrior's head back he pressed the blade against his prone throat to show his point.

"Do not fool yourself into thinking I will not," hissed the man malevolently. "I will kill your friends and any other elf without a second thought."

"Do not, my lord," Belthan gasped, his eyes shining fiercely despite his wounds. A blow to the head, however, sent the warrior slumping forward, unconscious.

Thranduil hesitated only a second further before dropping his weapon and raising his hands slowly.

Five men instantly flew forward. Two actually tackled him to the ground while the other three pounded various body parts into the ground, including his head. He clenched his teeth and made not a noise while they jerked him roughly up, so he was in a sense standing on his knees. His wrists were bound tightly together, as were his ankles. He was thoroughly searched for any further weapons.

The masked man strode forward.

Thranduil tensed, but tilted his chin proudly up to face his captor. His grey eyes glinted like steel and every inch of him spoke royalty and pride. He was not afraid of this human, no matter what position he was in. He gave no one the pleasure of his fear unless they had earned it.

"What do you want, thou cowardly man?" He spat defiantly.

The man's eyes, the only part of his face visible, darkened. He whipped off a leather hunting glove and slapped the elvenking across the face, so his head snapped to the side. Immediately Thranduil straightened, blood leaking from his lip, yet showing no sign of remorse or pain.

"Name me not coward," his captor hissed. He grabbed a handful of the fine elvish hair and jerked Thranduil's head backwards.

"Know this, elf—I hold power over your life and the lives of your fellows. You would be wise not to cross me—name me not coward!"

"But that is indeed what you are," Thranduil said coldly, staring the man in the eyes. "You attacked us with twenty or so men, yet remained out of the skirmish until we were nearly subdued. That behavior reeks of cowardice."

The man's eyes narrowed. He backhanded Thranduil several times with the glove, until the king's head spun. Nevertheless, he straightened the second the abuse ceased and continued to stare coldly into the eyes the one who held him captive.

"You would have been wise to fetter your words," the human said softly. "Your rashness serves you ill."

From a pouch within his tunic the man withdrew a tiny, thin needle. It was clear, so Thranduil was able to observe a dark green liquid within it. The human tore open Thranduil's left sleeve, then placed the needle carefully at a prominent vein.

"This vein leads directly to your heart," the human whispered, his voice alight with glee and malice. "The potion within the needle is brewed from the seeds of a tiny plant found only in one place—my garden. It is a cross-breed of poison plants found at the foot of the Misty Mountains and near the Falls of Rauros. It only takes a few hours to kill. But first you will become blind, deaf and dumb. It is a most unpleasant drug, so I've seen. There is no antidote, Master Elf."

He shoved the needle into Thranduil's vein all the way, until not even the tip poked out.

Thranduil didn't even flinch. His steely grey eyes grew even more like iron as he felt the drug coursing into his veins. It was like ice, and it felt like it was freezing the blood. It was as though all the snow on the Misty Mountains had melted and was now rushing as a great river throughout his body. Yet he made no motion of pain, or even discomfort. If he was going to die, he would do so without giving this human the satisfaction of seeing his pain.

"Why?" he queried after a moment. "Why do you do this? We did nothing to you, yet you attack us and now, I assume, leave us to die. I also assume you are responsible for the destruction of the cabin which formerly stod here, and for the separation of the wailing child from her mother we encountered here. What gain have you made?"

"Your curiosity is misplaced. The child is none of your concern. I do not believe that information is necessary for you to know," the human said smoothly.

Thranduil's muscles suddenly felt as though tight ropes had been bound about them. A flutter of panic came across his heart.

"What is happening?" he demanded. The dispicable human before him chuckled.

"Ah, I forgot. The first effect—paralysis." Thranduil could hear his smirk.

"Are you not pleased? You, my great king, get to spend your final hours utterly deprived of your fine elvish senses, and unable to move."

"Wh..why…" Thranduil's mouth and tongue were like slugs. Seconds later any sound forced from them was a monumental task.

"Perhaps I will grant you one little bit of information…"

With these words, the human removed his hood to reveal his identity.

A jolt of utter shock electrified Thranduil's mind. His heart skipped a beat as he stared, staggered, at the man's face. Never would he have expected this. His mouth formed a silent O and his protesting vocal chords forced just one word from his throat.

"Aragorn…"


	10. The Trap is Sprung

-

Taros spat at the unconscious Ranger's feet as he inserted a long, thin needle into the human's arm. The wound would be small, too tiny to see, really...

"Won't this be fun," he hissed maliciously. He turned smugly to one of his soldiers, who chuckled appreciatively.

"Stupid Ranger won't understand why his ears have suddenly gone useless and his eyes are blurry..."

-

Legolas's consciousness flitted in and out vaguely for hours. He had little concept of the time, only that it seemed to be passing very slowly and painfully. Consciousness never stayed long, but fled after only a moment or two, his awareness confirmed by the bleak scene which met his eyes time after time again, of the cold dungeon.

His thoughts were never completely clear. Instead, they were typically a disjointed flurry of random thoughts of the events that had taken place over the last fortnight. One such memory, however, jarred his being and as he swam desperately around in the ocean of disjointed thought he felt a sudden urge to return to full consciousness, for more than a few seconds.

He still did not know what object had been given him by the dying elf.

The will to regain his awareness was a tiny pinprick of light in a world darker than night. It was like being held beneath dark water, able only to see the tiniest peak of light above the surface. Forcing himself to surface exhausted him, but he ignored the aching feeling and pushed onward.

Finally he regained consciousness again, and this time commanded his tired mind not to retreat into the blissful depths of unawareness.

He was firmly shackled by the wrists to the wall, but the cold metal object was not so far down in his breeches. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the chains holding his wrists in place and pulled up. Unsteadily, he gained a foot and moaned as fire raced throughout his body. Yet if he wriggled his body correctly, he could force the object from its place...

He moved his lower body and stretched a hand to seize the small thing. He could barely insert a fingertip into the top of his breeches, as his hands were secured rather higher above him. It was very awkward indeed, and likely looked ridiculous, but he cared not. With an effort, he hooked a finger around the metal object and managed to bring it into his palm. Leaning heavily against the wall for support, his whole body aching from the effort, he looked down into his hand to scrutinize the object lying within it.

His eyes widened with shock as realization struck him.

The Ring of Barahir lay still in his open palm.

-

Awakening had not been a pleasant task for one Ranger.

In truth, Aragorn felt it had been a better time when he was not fully aware of every cut, bump and bruise he had received in the skirmish. Yet awaken he did as the drug wore off, and he was made fully aware that his body ached acutely from the numerous cuts and blows he had managed to obtain.

He was lying on his side, hands bound firmly behind his back and feet tied at the ankles. His captors were nowhere in sight, and if they left any trace of their path it was invisible, at least from this vantage point. Curiously, there was a dagger stuck firmly in the ground about three yards from where he lay bound. If he could manage to wriggle over to it, he could get it free and use it to cut his bonds...

He was at a loss to say why the men had left the weapon there, and it made him extremely suspicious. He cast his eyes about for any sign of a trap, or of an ambush, and discovered none evident to his naked eyes. Inching carefully towards it, by scooting his knees forward and then pushing his upper body after it, proved to be an effective, if agonizingly slow, method of reaching the means to free him.

Aragorn could not say how long he had been lying there. The sun was now lower in the sky than it had been, but it had been morning when they were attacked so it was difficult to guess. He estimated it to be early in the afternoon, and that he had been motionless for perhaps three hours.

Finally, after perhaps a half hour of infuriatingly slow progress, he reached his goal and flipped on his back so his hands could grasp the knife and yank it from the dirt.

Now came the difficult part. He managed to slip the knife in between his hands, and thus in between the ropes that bound him. Grasping the handle in one hand, he pushed the knife's blade backward against the ropes. Awkwardly he sawed away, but his movement being extremely limited his progress was even slower than his journey to reach the dagger. Every few minutes his fingers would be come unbearably stiff and he was forced to cease his motions until he regained circulation.

Eventually, after what seemed hours of sawing away--and, in his estimation, was probably close to around a full hour--the first rope fell away. He yanked his hands tentatively against them, but it wasn't enough, so he resigned himself to hacking away at another. Finally, when he had cut through the second one as well, he was able to pull away enough to slip his hands through the loosened ropes.

Hacking away the ropes that bound his feet took mere minutes, now that his hands were free. Dizzily he rose to his feet, eager to be on the move again. He looked around, not truly expecting to find his weapons but considering it worth a try anyway. True to his expectations the area was devoid of his sword and all the other weapons he normally carried.

Regretting it immensely but far too itchy to get moving, he did not dwell on it. His opponents had been skilled fighters, ones who would surely not leave any of his familiar weapons for him.

He gazed around the clearing for a second, trying to gain bearing on where he was and exactly what had happened, when suddenly alarm crashed through his existence and shook him to the core.

Thranduil! What had become of him? And Airulas and Belthan, where were they? He had heard their cries but had been helpless to do anything, busy fighting on his own. He felt sickened. It had been a diversion. He had been drawn away to get the elves alone.

Gritting his teeth, he chose the direction he believed he'd come from and plunged into the woods. Vaguely he found it odd that there were no birds chirping, and that there was no wind rustling the trees. His vision was less than perfect, too, but he figured it was due to the blow on the head he'd received and that it would clear up soon enough.

He raced back to where he had left the elves, and a horrific sight met his eyes.

King Thranduil lay unmoving on the ground at his feet. A gash tore open his right side from which blood streamed thickly and freely. His breathing was hitched, his pulse erratic. His skin was cold and his open eyes were glazed.

Aragorn cast his eyes around the glade. Airulas and Belthan were nowhere to be seen.

He inhaled sharply as he rushed to the king's side and inspected his wounds. Cursing, he wished he knew how long he had been away from them. He blinked his eyes furiously, but they did not seem to be able to clear properly. Certainly he could see, and nearly as well as any normal human could, but Aragorn was used to having sharpness of eyes comparable to elves', and having only mediocre vision, blurriness added, was extremely frustrating.

He gingerly rolled the king onto his back and pulled back the matted, bloody tunic. An ugly, careless gash ran across the fair skin, the edges of the wound crusting with blood and the middle still seeping crimson.

Aragorn's pulse raced. Something was wrong here. The king's injury was bad, but not fatal, yet the king appeared lifeless as a corpse. The slight, strained rise and fall of his chest was the only thing that gave Aragorn hope. He grasped a water flask and poured it onto the cleanest bit of cloth he could find, cleansing the wound the best he could. Was it poison? Aragorn could find no trace of leaves or any other herb near the king or in the wound. He checked the king's body and found no other lacerations or places where cut had been made for poison insertion. If it was poison, it must have been administered orally. The only way to get that out would be to force the king to vomit or to just wait for the poison to flush out of his system. That would require both consciousness of the king and plenty of water, neither of which Aragorn currently had.

Biting his lip he cast around and found two discarded elven water flasks lying near the outskirts of the glade. He rose to his feet and hastily collected them, figuring that he should collect the necessary supplies before trying to wake the king. That way in the event that he could get Thranduil conscious, there was no guarantee that the king would remain so for very long and it was best to be prepared. Aragorn spent a few minutes gathering what little remained of their belongings--a shred of cloth here he could use for bandages, strewn lembas, the water flasks--before he turned back to the king and his heart nearly stopped.

King Thranduil had stopped breathing.

Aragorn dropped the provisions and raced back to the elf. He snatched the elf's wrist up and pressed two fingers to the pulse. There was none. Gasping, he pressed a finger to his neck, where a strong and steady thump ought to be, straining for any weak sign of a pulse. Nothing.

Aragorn dropped to the ground and laid his ear against the elf's chest, hoping against hope that there might be a tiny thump, anything, just a sign that the king was still alive...

But there was nothing. Aragorn rocked back against his heels, reeling with shock as the stunning realization hit him like a pair of cymbals.

King Thranduil was dead.

-

**Reviews would be nice!**

**-**


	11. The First Strike

King Thranduil was dead.

Shock rammed Aragorn's senses mercilessly. He felt like he was on the end of a battering ram being thrust repeatedly into an unyielding iron door. How could he have let this happened?

"A ruse," he whispered bitterly to himself. "How could I have fallen for…when it was so obvious…"

The elf's hands were bound and lying on his stomach. Aragorn reached for his knife to cut the ropes, but his fingers could not seem to grasp the dagger. It felt like it was made of lead. He simply could not force himself to pick it up. Vaguely he observed that if he were to be attacked at this very moment, his reeling brain would not be able to react quickly enough to defend himself. He was simply in such an advanced state of pure disbelief that he felt he could not function.

The king was dead.

Mirkwood's ruler, Legolas's father, Elrond's friend…slain.

"I am so sorry, Your Highness," he whispered hoarsely. He reached over and closed the lids of the still elf's eyes.

He staggered to his feet, but seconds later crashed to the ground again. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. Even in his shock, he knew something was not right. His brain was far more muddled than it should be. He could not think straight. And though part of it was the horror from the elf-king's death, he had seen comrades slain in battle before and not reacted like this. Was it only because Thranduil was a great king, and the father of Legolas? Aragorn didn't know, but it bothered him.

So he sat next to the king's body.

He didn't know how long he sat there. But it seemed the right thing to do, he could not just abandon it there. So he would sit there until a better alternative presented itself.

The hours passed.

-

The key scraped in its lock to the door on Legolas's cell. Hastily the elf shoved his newly discovered clue into his breeches. He could not let his captors know what he had. The Ring of Barahir was quite a find, indeed!

He glared weakly at the tall man whose friendship he formerly valued.

"How do you feel?" the human asked softly. When Legolas didn't answer, he chuckled softly. "Not very well? Ah well. That's all right."

He nodded sharply and two men came forward suddenly. They carelessly wrenched open the chains and drew the elf ungently to his feet before shackling his wrists again with rope.

Aragorn eyed the elf approvingly. There was something mysterious glinting behind his eyes, like he knew something no one else did.

"That will do," was all he said. He nodded again to the men and stepped aside. They dragged the weakened elf with them, past Aragorn.

Legolas gazed questioningly at the one he used to call friend as he passed the human.

"Good bye, Legolas," called the human softly. A smirk alight on his face, he turned and left.

A jolt of terror ran through the elf's heart. This was it. Aragorn had bidden him good bye, and the tone of finality in his voice could only mean one thing: death. Aragorn had finally grown weary of toying with him, and was sending him to his execution.

The burly men took the unresisting elf to a far gate outside the building. They were outside now, and Legolas was actually able to get a look at where they were. It was a dense forest, and the building behind them blended in quite well with its sandy and green colors.

"Here?" Legolas said quietly. "Not inside?"

The two men exchanged glances and didn't reply.

"Don't want to make a mess, I suppose," the elf commented vaguely, almost ruefully.

One of the men withdrew a knife from his belt. Legolas stared at him quite calmly, looking him in the eye until he flinched and looked away.

"But not painful?" he mused quietly, almost as if he were observing someone else's pending execution and merely running a commentary on it.

Then the man lifted the knife. Legolas tilted his head higher. They would get no pleas of mercy from him. Death terrified him, but cowardice was almost equally frightening. He was too weak to fight them, and if this was to happen he felt there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The knife whistled down and Legolas flinched involuntarily, preparing to feel the sharp steel piercing his skin and draining life from him.

Instead, he felt his circulation restored as the ropes fell limply from his hands, severed by the blade Legolas had been so certain was marked to slay him.

He stared at the guard in pure, disbelieving shock. "Wh-what are you doing?" he stuttered, for once in his immortal life caught completely off guard.

The man jerked his head in the direction of the woods. "Master's orders. He says to tell you he's had his fun with you, now he's tired of you. No one will follow you, no one is waiting to ambush you. You're free to go. Now…get out."

Legolas could not move. He had never in his life been simply _freed_ from captivity. Captors simply were more hostile than that. They did not simply have their fun then get tired of you and let you leave. At least, not the ones with purpose—and Aragorn had definitely had a purpose.

"I don't understand," he began slowly, but was cut off by a flash of steel which sliced sharply across his face.

"What's so difficult!" the man snarled. "Get out—now!"

He held up the knife threateningly. "Don't ask me why he's letting you go—we're not to kill you, but I can make a few more scars if you don't seem to get it. _Get out of here._"

Legolas slowly stepped backward towards the woods, watching the two men warily.

"Go," snapped the first, who had done all the talking.

Legolas took another tentative step backward and then, deciding that if this were indeed a ruse this would be his best shot at escape anyway, turned and fled as quickly as his wounded body would allow into the woods. He did not stop until the fortress was no longer in sight, and the burn in his side forced him to slow down.

A twig snapped to his left.

Legolas straightened immediately, fear unwittingly filling him. He was completely unarmed. Was this a trap, after all? It had to be.

He advanced slowly towards it, knowing it wasn't really a good idea as he had no weapons but unable to stand not knowing what it was. And if it was Aragorn's men, they would eventually catch him anyway.

He reached the source, and gasped.

Áirúlas and Belthan, his father's guards, were bound together on the ground in the middle of a plot of bushes, their mouths gagged as well. Legolas rushed to them and pulled the cloths from their mouths. Their eyes had also widened in shock and disbelief at the sight of their prince randomly appearing from nowhere. The second they could talk, they gasped.

"Prince Legolas!" Áirúlas gasped. "What—we were looking for you, Highness! How did you get here? Who kept you captive?"

"It's a long story," Legolas said grimly. He looked around.

"Our weapons were discarded over there," Belthan said, nodding his head to the left. Legolas looked, and they were indeed strewn in a careless pile on the ground. He seized a slender dagger and swiftly cut their bonds.

"My father—was he with you?" Legolas asked anxiously as soon as they were free. He was almost positive his father would not send the guards without going himself, for a mission as important as this one.

"His Highness was injured when we last saw him," Áirúlas said gravely.

"We were rendered unconscious by the bandits," Belthan added. "We have been awake for a while now, but we believe they left us here to die."

Legolas bit his lip as he scanned the two elves. Both were injured, one sporting a side arrow wound and the other various blood-crusted cuts and bruises.

"Can you walk?" he asked, helping them to their feet. Both nodded. They were in obvious pain, but were not about to let that stop them from their next obvious task: finding King Thranduil.

"We must find my father," Legolas said. "Do you think you can find the site of the battle? It's as best a place to start as any."

"It should not be hard," Áirúlas interjected. "I sensed we were not unconscious for long, so they cannot have had much time to take us anywhere."

"I came from that direction," Legolas said, pointing towards the direction of the fortress and deciding now was not the best time to talk about it.

"I believe…this way," Belthan said confidently, wincing as he walked.

They walked in silence, Legolas letting the other two use their elven senses to determine the last known location of the king.

They had walked perhaps a mile in silence before Áirúlas suddenly stopped, and Belthan nodded.

"We are close," the former breathed. "The air here—it is different. And see…" he stooped to pick up something off the ground. "An arrow shaft. Broken, from the battle—"

He stopped abruptly as all three elves picked up on some movement in the clearing ahead.

"Quietly," Legolas breathed, though the others did not need to be told.

They crept silently as only elves could until they could see. Belthan whispered that this was where the battle had occurred, he was certain of it.

Then it became clear just what—or _who_—was in that clearing.

Legolas's breath caught in his throat, and his heart burned suddenly with absolute rage and hatred.

Aragorn was in the clearing, kneeling, a knife in his hand, leaning over the unmoving body of King Thranduil.

So it had been a trap after all. Aragorn released him, only so he could see the human kill his father.

Two words left Legolas's mouth through gritted teeth.

"Kill him."

**-**

**Right! Written at midnight on a Starbucks high...let me know if it's any good! Please! Lattes for reviewers!**

**-**


	12. The King of Mirkwood

-

Aragorn's mind did not have a chance to register shock as he found himself bowled over and pinned harshly to the ground by two muscular elven bodies, who kicked away his weapon and held a knife to his throat. He had not even heard them enter the glade.

"Wh-what?" he managed, eyes widening. Alarm bells were going off in his head. "Áirúlas—Belthan—what do you mean by this? Are you hurt? What do you mean by your actions? Let me up!"

"Your charade has come to an end," came a cold, steel-edged voice, and Aragorn felt shock as Legolas, missing Prince of Mirkwood, came striding towards him. His posture was rigid and unfriendly, and his eyes were flinty.

"Legolas," Aragorn practically gasped. He made an attempt to rise but was pressed firmly and not gently into the ground by the two elves.

"Stay," Belthan ordered harshly. "Do not move."

Aragorn lay still. He knew this was a grave misunderstanding, but what was it? And what could cause Legolas to act so steely? It was better for him to just stay and let them sort it out.

"Legolas," Aragorn said carefully. He was overjoyed to find his friend alive, and more or less uninjured, but he could not understand why Legolas was not reacting the same way to him. "A fortnight has passed since we began our pursuit of you—"

His greeting was cut off by a swift backhand from Áirúlas at a nod from the prince.

"Silence, traitor," Legolas said. "Bring him to his knees."

Aragorn was hauled to his knees, arms held firmly behnd his back. He had no idea what was going on. Legolas slowly walked toward him, circled around him, and fell at his knees beside his father's body. No emotion played in the prince's hardened eyes. Hatred left no room for emotion.

"So you slew him." The prince's voice was flat, and Legolas held up a hand as a shocked Aragorn tried to stammer an explanation.

"Do not," was all he said. He laid a gentle hand on his father's chest. No one would have been able to tell that Legolas was fighting tears and stamping down the roaring emotion trying to tear itself from his chest.

"Life has fled," he said simply. His father was dead. Grief welled up in him but he had no time to acknowledge it. He could do so later in the privacy of his home. Right here, now, when the murderer was on his knees before him, was not the time. Right now he had to deal with the slayer of the King of Mirkwood.

He looked the speechless Ranger in the eye, until the man weakened from shock looked away. Legolas's gaze did not wander as he spoke.

"Kill him."

Áirúlas and Belthan looked at each other and hesitated. Aragorn looked like he was about to faint from the pure shock and opened his mouth to desperately try to explain his innocence, but Legolas made a violent gesture, and the human was punched in the stomach, effectively cutting off his plea and indicating he should talk no more.

"My lord," began Belthan hesitantly, in a hushed whisper. "For many leagues did this man travel with us—this cannot be as it seems."

"You have been fooled," said Legolas coldly. "Surely he cannot have accompanied you the entire time—did you never mark his absence?"

"He was not present unfailingly," admitted Áirúlas slowly. "But, my lord, this man is a friend of yours, surely you would allow him an explanation—"

"Silence," Legolas hissed, his eyes darkened with fury, his normally calm demeanor shaking with rage. The elf fell silent, unused to this treatment from the usually-rational prince. "He is a liar and not who he seems. _He_ has been my captor. In his absence with me he must have traveled with you. And when he left you he came to me. Now I repeat: slay him."

The two elves' eyes widened in shock at Legolas's revelation.

"Kill him!" the elf prince snarled. The elves slowly made to do Legolas's will. Then the elf-prince held up a hand.

"Wait," he said in a tone deadly soft. He unsheathed a knife and walked slowly towards the accused, bewildered Ranger whose eyes shone with confusion and fear. "I will do it."

"Legolas…" Aragorn's mouth was dry. What had been done to him? Why was he behaving so coldly? Why was he about to murder his best friend? Surely he had been brainwashed, tortured into insanity. It was powerful sorcery that must have done this to him, to be able to turn the Eldar against the Adan so totally…

"Do not speak, human, your words are but poisonous lies," Legolas said. Every word dripped venom and hatred as he came closer to the helpless Ranger.

"Please, Legolas." Aragorn's heart dropped faster and faster as the elf neared. Legolas was not play-acting; he was deadly serious. He was going to kill Aragorn.

"Your blood is mine, human," Legolas hissed. He placed the tip of the knife at Aragorn's left ear. Aragorn tensed, and knew what he had to do.

"Legolas, wait!" he burst out. The elf instinctively hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was enough. Aragorn tore his arms from the elves' grasp and at the same time jerked his head away, so Legolas's blade would not catch his throat.

"I am sorry," he gasped, then drew his fist back and planted it into the head of Áirúlas. No other human could have moved as quickly as he did. Then he did something he swore he would never do and held the elf's body in front of him as a shield.

"My sorrow is unspeakable," he said with labored breaths. "Legolas—I do not know what evil has befallen you and caused you to act with such hatred—I did not kill your noble father. But know this: I am and will ever be your friend. This time will pass and you will know the truth, and at that time I will still be here for you, as ever I have been. Farewell!"

He shoved Áirúlas at them and tore away. He knew he had but a few seconds' head start; the elves would be able to track him easily in the woods. But he knew they were injured, and it would slow them down. It pained him to think he was actually grateful for the injury of an Eldar.

The rushing roar of water met his ears somewhere nearby. It was his only hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he could reach it, the current could carry him away faster than the elves could run. He followed the sound and was met with a cliff. Though only perhaps twenty feet in height, rocks lay below caused a possible hazard. Aragorn didn't think twice. It was his only chance of escaping the elves.

He jumped, and was immediately met with black as water rushed into his vision and filled his senses, rendering him helpless and unconscious.

-

Legolas stared down at the raging river from the cliff over which the traitorous human had just leaped.

"Like a coward, he flies," he said softly.

"Shall we follow, lord?" Belthan asked from his side. Áirúlas remained, unconscious from Aragorn's blow, in the glade where Aragorn had first been found. Legolas almost smiled faintly. The guard was so undyingly loyal to the royal family of Mirkwood he was apparently prepared to follow Aragorn's seemingly-suicidal path over the cliff.

"No," Legolas answered. He was still staring where Aragorn had disappeared. It was a mark of his complete and total severance from any good feelings towards Aragorn that he felt not even a twinge of sorrow that the fall probably killed the human.

He turned to the other elf, showing no regret nor sorrow.

"It's time to go home," he said.

-

Upon their return to the glade they encountered another problem: the three injured elves could not possibly carry Thranduil's body all the way back to Mirkwood. Really, they did not even know where exactly they were. Legolas point-blank refused to hire human help, or horses owned by humans, or ask guidance from humans. He did not trust them, even the seemingly-innocent villagers.

"We have but one choice," he said quietly, staring at the king's deathly-still body lying eerily in the middle of the clearing.

"Fire." Áirúlas said it. "Pyres have been used by many of your ancestors, Highness. It is a noble and fitting farewell."

"Then we shall gather wood," Legolas declared, still with no emotion. He seemed to the other elves to be completely cut off from the world, operating only out of habit. He turned towards the wood to do so, but stopped when he noticed the other elves were still standing there, unmoving.

"Why do you hesitate?" he snapped. They did not take offense.

"Before we proceed, there is an order of business which must occur," Belthan said quietly.

"Business?" Legolas echoed, almost in disbelief. The king had just died, they were stranded in some unknown, hostile territory, and they wanted to conduct _business_?

"It is most urgent," Áirúlas added respectfully and carefully, seeming like he sensed Legolas's foul and irritated mood.

"For Valar's sake, what is it?" the son of Thranduil barked.

Áirúlas and Belthan glanced at one another before simultaneously kneeling and planting their daggers in the ground at Legolas's feet.

The golden-haired royal looked bewildered. "What in the name of all the heavens are you doing?" he demanded, confused and annoyed.

"From this moment on, and forever forth, to the end of my life as it exists on this earth, I pledge my life and service to you, my king, Valar help me and hold me to it," Áirúlas murmured. His head was bowed and the words were hushed. Beside him Belthan spoke the same words.

Legolas stood rooted to the spot. He could not move. Of course this was reality…but it would not have occurred to him for a very long time…

"I am king," he whispered, both electrified and horrified by his own words. He was the _king_. Being the only child of his father, he was naturally heir to the throne when Thranduil either departed Middle-Earth for Valinor, or passed away. The latter, which Legolas had never imagined would come to pass, had happened. This left Legolas as sole, supreme ruler of Mirkwood.

He stood stiffly while Áirúlas and Belthan remained kneeling. They would not rise until Legolas, as the new king, accepted their solemn life pledges to his service and bade them rise.

He wanted to fall over with the shock and sudden, intense pressure, but he couldn't. Any emotions threatening to spill over were coldly and firmly squashed down. Instead of breaking down, he remained cold and aloof.

"Rise," he commanded. His voice sounded like he had been king for years. He could hide his feelings well. Especially now, when it was so necessary.

"I—" he cleared his throat and spoke the traditional, solemn words of acceptance. "I, the rightful king of Mirkwood, accept these your solemn vows, and shall forever hold you to them. Rise."

They did as he bade them, silently.

"We will seek out wood for my father's pyre. Valar help us we shall be done with the entire affair and on our way back to Mirkwood before dawn breaks."

They nodded in submission. To them, Legolas's word was now law.

"Bring back your finds in one hour," Legolas said grimly. He refused to name the deed before them or even to look upon the body of his father.

He didn't wait for them to acknowledge him. He just turned and walked silently into the forest.

No tears slipped down his cheeks, though they could have and none would have been the wiser. Hardened hatred and resolve were the only things left in his grey eyes, piercing and cruel as a hawk. The laughing golden boy of Mirkwood was gone.

A cold king with a heart of stone had replaced him. And it had not happened overnight; the heart of Legolas had, not long ago, beat warm and steady. Slowly, though, the warmth was replaced by the chill of evil. It was like a petrified tree; the soft wood slowly replaced by minerals until they built up and the tree actually became made of stone. Such was the case here. It had started a long time ago. This descent into darkness was like gravity; all it took was a little _push _to get it started. Aragorn's betrayal had been that push. Legolas hadn't known it, but his heart began to turn to stone at that. And the continued torture, the claustrophobia…it had all happened in such small quantities, had hadn't know what was happening. He never realized how his heart was hardening. If he could see himself before Aragorn's betrayal he would have been shocked at the difference. And now, with his father dead, the solidification of his heart was complete.

Legolas would never laugh the same way again. He would never look upon a human again without despising it and spitting in its face. No human would ever set foot in Mirkwood for the rest of eternity. Any human caught in Mirkwood would be killed without question or excuse.

Then without warning, an arrow alight with flame screamed past his shoulder, narrowly missing him. Legolas's breath caught in his breath and he ducked. His eyes furrowed with anger, not fear.

They were under attack.

And that was not the worst of it. They were all injured and weak, and close to weaponless. Why now? Legolas's eyes burned with fury. Could they not even let the elves bury their dead in peace? Truthfully, Legolas did not even know if their current attackers were related to Aragorn's men, but they were close to the compound and it would make sense.

He whistled a low elven signal to his warriors which to any other ears would sound like a bird's call, but which Legolas knew Áirúlas and Belthan would recognize as the _retreat _signal.

Legolas clenched his teeth. Arrows rained all around him; it was a miracle he had not yet been struck. But still he remained motionless. He did not know if he could live with himself if he were to simply abandon his father's body there. And yet, judging by the sheet of arrows raining down around him, their attackers numbered at least two dozen. It was far too great a number for three injured, nearly-defenseless elves to handle. Legolas's eyes darted around. He saw no conceivable way to take Thranduil's body with them.

Cursing the day he was born, Legolas came out of his reverie and fled.

They met up shortly and took to the trees; there was almost no way for their pursuers to overtake them this way. Injured as they were, the elves skills' in the trees still far outweighed that of the men.

Oddly, their pursuers fell back more quickly than was expected. Legolas was too tired and too screamingly angry to care about the reason for that. They made a quick rope bridge across the river, and cut it swiftly. They heard shouts in the distance, but they didn't care. Now that they had crossed the river, which flowed far too dangerously for a water crossing, the danger was gone. They were still in hostile territory, but safety was not far.

Sick at heart, Legolas turned a last glance in the direction of where he had left Thranduil's body.

"Rest well, my father," he whispered brokenly. He turned back. The other elves watched him silently, respectfully saying nothing. Legolas locked eyes with both of them, and inwardly they shuddered to see the extreme change that had come over him. Legolas spoke, and his voice was cold and purpose-driven.

"We set out for Mirkwood. We slay any humans we encounter."

He ignored their exchanged glances of worry. No, he would not force them to carry out anything they felt bound by morality not to complete, but he knew his purpose.

He _hated _them. He hated Aragorn, and he hated men. He strode past them, in the direction of their home.

"To Mirkwood," he said.

-

**The end.**

-

Evil much? Um…is it presumptuous to ask for reviews, now? Will it help if I say a sequel is forthcoming?

-


	13. Epilogue: Wicked Perfection

**Note: 'Kay, I decided this fic would work best with an epilogue! I don't know if you're supposed to do epilogues for stories with forthcoming sequels, but what the heck. **

**This chapter chock-full of pretty little cliffies and teasers. If you thought the last chapter was bad, you better not read this one. It's worse. Much, much worse.**

**One last (unrelated) note: Christian Bale tips the hotness scale at 20 on a scale of 1-10. Peace out.**

-

Taros felt an insuppressible flash of malicious pride shoot straight through his cold, dark heart. Hidden in the trees, alone, unable to be detected by the injured elves and handicapped Ranger, he watched as his plan unfolded with evil perfection.

The pretty little prince, blinded by fury and guided by rage, attacked the man who Taros knew had never committed a deed against him. The foolish immortal released his wrath and malice, pent up over months of torment believed to be by the man before him, on the stammering, terrified mortal on the ground.

And on the cold, unfeeling ground lay the eerily still body of Mirkwood's king. Taros smirked lazy. A casualty, unfortunately necessary. He could have killed the heir at this very moment, as he possessed a bow and arrows and the shot would have been clear. But no…the Eldar was welcome to return to his cold forest and shut himself up in it; in truth, Taros had absolutely nothing against the elf. He really didn't care what happened to him. Simply the only reason he had gotten mixed up in this delightful mess was that he happened to be the hated Dunedan's friend. Taros sneered at the thought. What Dunedan had _friends_? Or at least, an _elf_ friend? Typically they stuck together in their little packages of Rangers and never really talked to anyone else for social purposes.

Taros shrugged. This was another instance where he simply did not care. It mattered little _why_, precisely, the elf chose to spend his time with the Ranger, the fact that he _did_ was quite enough. He was valuable to the Ranger, and had therefore had been the perfect target.

Wait!

Taros's thoughts were jerked back to reality as the far-too-resilient Ranger actually _escaped _his icy elven companion's death-grip and headed for the trees. Taros swore as he retreated backwards. The human could not get away!

Yet he had left every single one of his soldiers a way back, desiring to be alone in his view of the Ranger's downfall. He had also wanted to avoid detection. None of the party of four would have detected a single, discreet human hiding silently in the boughs of the trees, but a posse, even a small one, would have surely garnered unwanted attention and possibly Taros's own revelation as the perpetrator.

He beat a hasty retreat back to where he had left his soldiers waiting obediently and motioned.

"Quickly!" he snarled. They jumped up immediately and made after the human.

"Subdue him!" Taros snapped. "The human only! I care not about the elves!"

Taros was furious now. He had wanted the elf to kill the Ranger. He had wanted the man's last glimpse of life to be the cold, heartless of eyes of his former friend as the latter slid a steel blade across his lifesource, destroying him.

But if that didn't work, Taros would take matters into his own hands. He drew a knife, baring his teeth. He would destroy the Ranger himself. After all, it could be fun; the Ranger would get to stare his twin in the face and realize it had been _him _all along who had turned his best friend against him and made his life not worth living.

He followed the blindly charging Ranger closely. His lips curled and his eyes narrowed as the Ranger suddenly paused. As Taros drew nearer, he saw the reason for the sudden halt; the Ranger stood before a massive cliff beneath which a churning river raged mercilessly.

The Ranger cast a desperate glance behind him. It was almost like Taros could read his mind. The idiot human was going to jump.

"No, you do not," Taros hissed through clenched teeth. He raised his knife, preparing to hurl it through the air into the Ranger's back, killing him in cold blood.

But he didn't get the chance. In the blink of an eye, Taros's prediction came true. The true Aragorn had taken a deep breath and thrown himself off the sheer rock ledge. He landed with a splash barely perceptible in the raging waters, and disappeared from sight.

Taros nearly screamed in fury. He flung his dagger at the nearest tree with all his strength. It whirled end over end and embedded itself in the trunk of the tree solidly.

"Fine, then your friends will pay," Taros hissed through clenched teeth. He called his soldiers together.

"Find the elves. They are likely to be back at their leader's body," he said shortly. "Kill them."

They did as he commanded, and he followed. Accurately, they had surrounded the king's body. One held a torch. Clearly they had discovered they could not carry his body with them and were planning to honorably burn the body.

But this would not be, if Taros could help it.

"No burial for your precious father, princeling!" he snarled. "You have your friend to thank for that!"

They began their rain of arrows. Taros had given them strict instructions not to let themselves be seen. If one was captured, he might spill the entire story. Taros thought had tormented them enough to 'help' them remember to never, ever reveal anything, but this elf-prince looked just stonily furious enough to torture any information he wanted out of Taros's relatively weak thugs.

The injured, defenseless elves were forced to flee. Their prince—now king—had tears of fury and defeat streaming down his face. At least, to Taros's eyes so it seemed.

They pursued the elves to the river.

"Suicidal fools!" Taros raved, halting the pursuit as the elves threw their tired selves into the foaming waters.

He watched as the river carried their bodies away. It was not worth pursuing them. He was not so bent on their destruction as to risk his own life to do so. He thought the waters would surely destroy them; if not, so be it. Their lives would be miserable with that ice statue for a king that had formerly been their prince.

Taros rested his back against a tree, watching the river, now devoid of any signs of the elves it had swallowed.

His evil, twisted mind was already working. He would have the entire river checked for bodies. He had money and influence. People would do as he said. In the calmer area downstream he would order a search be conducted. If the Ranger's body was not found, he was alive. Taros had watched him for long enough to know that he was oddly resistant to being killed by things that ought to kill one. Long falls into rocky, swift water were no exception.

A cruel smile twisted his lips. And if the human were alive, that meant the game could continue. Actually, it would be rather good if he were still alive. It would mean all the more chance for Taros to make the true Aragorn wish he had _not _survived the fall.

After all, the Ranger had a family, located in Rivendell, did he not?

Elves were such fun.

-

Legolas, Áirúlas and Belthan returned home empty-handed yet heavily burdened. All of Mirkwood watched silently as their laughing golden boy took the throne and a shadow fell over their forest.

A mourning service was held for King Thranduil. Legolas attended, and his subjects shuddered to see the look of cold steel which had replaced the warmth in his eyes. He did not shed a tear, nor did any emotion replace the cold, hard look upon his once jovial face.

The new King Legolas often sat for days without speaking to anyone, or eating. He refused to move into his father's suite, instead ordering that the place be boarded up and the windows covered with steel. He sometimes went for weeks without leaving the palace.

At one point, a human mistakenly wandered into Mirkwood, having become confused and lost at its borders. He was unarmed, had not shot any game belonging to the elves, nor attempted to show them anything but courtesy and respect. He begged their forgiveness for his error.

Legolas ordered him beaten and imprisoned for a term of ten years. After this, the dark prince ordered, he would be executed.

The guards had exchanged looks at this. They feared for their young king and for the wellbeing of the kingdom. Sorrowful at the condemnation of the innocent, terrified human, they did as their king commanded, wishing there was something they could do.

But there was nothing.

Legolas's mind was lost to the darkness. Evil had crept into his mind and affected him fully. He was entirely gone, destroyed by betrayal and the unbearable pain of extreme loss.

Maybe there was something that could save him. The elves whispered, and speculated, and Legolas did not hear. He heard nothing of late. He was shut away in his own solitary prison from which he did not wish to escape.

Perhaps he could escape. But no one knew. The prince had fallen into darkness. It had sucked him in like one of the giant holes up beyond Middle-Earth where the darkness devoured anything foolish enough to get near it. Legolas had wandered, had been pushed, and finally had looked into the darkness and embraced it.

Who knew if there was any hope for him?

Only time would tell, and time, endless to immortals, was something of which they suddenly had very little.

With every passing day, Legolas grew colder and more ruthless. It would soon be too late.

If Legolas continued in his heartless rule of Mirkwood, the shadow would never cease to loom, and the Greenleaf's heart would remain permanently stone.

If there was a way to save him, it was invisible, and with every passing day, hope fled further.

They could only wait and see.

-

As for Aragorn, Taros was right; the Ranger had a jaw-droppingly amazing habit of surviving things which ought to kill one.

He awoke to severe blurriness and pain all over, in a calm area of the river. Water filled his lungs. He spat it out. Shaking water out of his eyes, he spied the bank not far away. He swam to the side.

Shivering, he crouched on the bank, the events of the week hitting him. Shudders wracked his drenched form, and before he knew it a furious stream of tears burst forth from his weakened form.

He had never felt more hopeless in his life. He had watched his best friend try to kill him without provocation. He had seen the dead, cold look in the friend's eyes as he raised the blade to take the life he had so many times before saved.

Anguish wracked him and he choked on a cry as he stumbled to his feet. He comissioned a horse from a nearby village, and, utterly drained and almost ready to give up, headed the only place he knew to go: Rivendell. He knew they would understand. He knew there he would be welcomed, loved. He was always welcome in the House of Elrond.

He didn't know Taros was headed there, too.

-

And somewhere, a blond-haired elf wandered, his clothes singed. He had no idea where he was. He would probably never find his way home.

Oh, but this was why Legolas's salvation was invisible.

The beautiful, lost elf had no idea who he was.

He had no idea he had a son.

-


End file.
